of his hands, and his feet were hobbled too closely to allow him to kick the jar apart. But he could try to break it with his weight.
He checked on the beggar, who had not moved.
Getting up on his feet-not an easy thing to do-he shuffled into position and backed up. Then he sat down with as much force as he dared use with the guard outside. Pain stabbed his back and posterior, but the jar survived. He suppressed a groan, checked the beggar’s motionless figure, and scrambled up again to repeat the process. After the fifth attempt, he heard a faint cracking. On the next try, the jar collapsed. For a moment it felt as though a dozen knives had been stuck into his back and backside. He gritted his teeth and listened. The guard outside had taken to walking back and forth. He was muttering under his breath but appeared unaware of activity in the shed. Tora rolled off the jar and waited until some of the pain receded. The jar had become a pile of smaller pieces, with one large shard pointing upward from the flat bottom. He ignored the warm wetness seeping through his pants and maneuvered the shard into a corner by pushing it with his head, then backed up and brought his wrists up against it.
He needed to rub the rope against the upright shard until it parted-easier thought of than done. The shard kept moving and tipping. Since he could not see it, he had to turn around each time to check what had happened and to reposition it. Meanwhile, the rope-a strong new one-gave no signs of parting. The shard caught his skin more often than it did the rope until his hands were slippery with blood.
To make matters worse, the beggar started muttering and moaning in his corner.
Suddenly there was a scratching against the back wall of the shed, and a soft “Ssst.” Tora hissed back and waited. After a moment, Kinjiro’s voice whispered, “Tora?”
“Yes.” The beggar seemed to have drifted off again.
“Can you get loose?”
Tora could not, but whispered, “I’m working on it.”
“I’ll try to get rid of the guard.”
Tora did not know what to say. What could Kinjiro do? More to the point, what would they do to him if he were caught? He whispered, “Be careful,” but the boy had already gone.
He worked his wrists up and down feverishly. Outside Kinjiro was striking up a conversation with the guard. “Kata Sensei says to cover for you if you want to relieve yourself.”
“Kind of him,” grumbled the man. “I’m about to burst. That snack I had in the market didn’t agree with me. I’ve been stepping from one foot to the other forever.”
His rapid footsteps receded.
Tora heard Kinjiro working the lock. The lad seemed to be trying out keys. There was not much time. If Kinjiro could not open the shed quickly, the guard would be back, and their chance would be lost. He leaned into his labors with total concentration, ignoring the pain in his wrists, ignoring the choking halter around his neck, ignoring the cramping muscles in his arms and back. Outside Kinjiro cursed. Things were not going well. Tora made one more desperate effort, and this time he thought he felt the rope ease a little. Once more, and yes, a definite easing! Then several strands parted. He was almost there. He glanced at the beggar. The man’s eyes were open and watching him.
At that moment the rope parted. Tora was drenched with sweat and his breath was coming in gasps. He loosened the halter around his neck, straightened his painful back, and brought his arms forward. His wrists were a bloody mess, and he grimaced as he undid the rest of the knots with his teeth. Then he untied his feet.
Just in time.
“Hey,” shouted the beggar. “Someone quick! He’s escaping.”
Cursing under his breath, Tora pounced on him and knocked him out again, stifling the man’s shriek. He felt no compunction and had no time to worry about the evil little toad.
Outside, Kinjiro had stopped working the lock and was wrenching at the door instead.
“Back away,” Tora shouted and delivered a mighty kick to where he knew the lock was. The door flew open and he shot out.
“Hurry,” Kinjiro cried, his voice squeaking with panic. “The bastard’s going to be back any second. We’ve got to run for it.”
Their luck ran out immediately. When they rounded the corner, the guard was strolling toward them. His jaw sagged comically; he let out a yell. Tora barreled into him, knocking him down, the boy slid past, and together they ran for the next corner, dimly aware of shouts and pounding feet.
After that they ran for their lives. They dodged piles of refuse, sprinted past a funeral procession, knocked down a small child who had stepped into the street to stare, dove down alleys, and zigzagged through two wards to throw off their unseen pursuers. They did not slow down or look behind them until they reached Ninth Avenue, a busy street marking the southern perimeter of the capital. Here they attracted curious stares. Tora caught up with Kinjiro. “Slow down,” he gasped, “or we’ll have the constables after us, too.”
Kinjiro nodded, but he kept looking over his shoulder. At the intersection with Suzako Avenue, he turned toward Rashomon, the gate leading out of the city.
“Not that way,” Tora said. He pointed to the large temple on the other side of the street. “Quick, in there!”
The Eastern Temple was an ancient complex adjoining Rashomon. It had been designated “Temple for the Protection of the Land.” A steady trickle of people moved through its large gate. The epidemic had brought them here to offer their prayers for relief. Tora and the boy joined the worshippers and climbed the steps to the temple gate. An elderly monk stood there, holding a large collection bowl, his eyes unfocused and his head bobbing rhythmically as each visitor dropped his offering. Tora parted with his last three coppers as they passed through. Instead of following the others to the main hall, he and Kinjiro cut across the courtyard toward the pagoda.
As Tora had guessed, they were the only visitors to the small altar room whose walls and pillars were covered with paintings of the two Buddhist worlds. Exhausted, he collapsed on the steps that led to the floors above.
“Well,” he told the boy, who was inspecting the pictures, “we did it. Thanks for your timely help.”
“Don’t mention it.” The boy suddenly turned and grinned. “That was very good. I can’t remember when I’ve had more fun. Don’t you wish you could see their faces? Bet they’re running around like a bunch of ants back there.” He chortled and came to sit beside Tora. “We’ve got to leave town. How much money have you got, Tora?”
“I just gave the baldpate my last coppers.”
“Stupid.”
“Hey. Remember where you are. You want to go to hell?”
Kinjiro grinned. “Too late to worry about that. We’ll walk a few miles and offer to help a farmer for a meal and a dry place to sleep. Just so we get out of the capital.”
Tora shook his head. “No, we can’t. There’s unfinished business.”
Kinjiro sat up. “Are you mad? You want to go back there again? They’ll kill you. You heard Kata. And Matsue won’t put it off this time.”
“Yes, I know. That’s the point. What we know about Kata and his gang is not much good unless we tell the police.”
Now Kinjiro was on his feet, his face filled with shock and disgust. “You work for the police. The beggar told the truth.” He clenched his fists and cried, “And I trusted you.” He made a sound between a sob and a curse, and rushed out. Tora went after him, groaning when his much abused muscles refused to cooperate. He stumbled down the pagoda steps after the boy, who was already halfway across the courtyard. Tora had visions of his running to warn Kata. He was not afraid that the gang would escape the law, but that they would take their revenge on Kinjiro for letting Tora go. By dint of superhuman effort, he managed to catch up and snag the boy’s shirt just as he was dashing through the temple gate. They fell sprawling at the feet of the gatekeeper. People stopped to see what was happening.
The monk was not amused. “What are you doing?” he demanded sternly, hauling the boy up by the scruff of his neck, and glaring at Tora. “And you a full-grown man, too. Aren’t you ashamed to behave this way in a holy place?”
“Er-” said Tora, quickly hiding his bloody wrists and hands in his sleeves, “ah, well, my son here got frightened and tried to run away. He doesn’t like temples, you see. Says they’re full of ghosts and goblins. I’ve been trying to show him that there’s nothing to be afraid of, but he’s very stubborn. Don’t let him go, please.”
