To the White Sea

It had been night so long, in some places with fire bright as day, that I had got used to the idea that there wasn't going to be anything else. But in the way I was going, the fires were definitely less than they'd been--less bunched up, less high and less hot. I kept moving according to my gut feel, even though I had to jog this way and that way among the streets. I did change streets a lot, but the people were all just like one another. Nobody said a thing to me, and my main trouble was in trying to look as confused and aimless as they did while I held on to my heading.

I was almost clear of Tokyo now. The fires were low--you could have stomped some of them out with your feet--and the smoke not nearly as thick. Instead of the houses' being jammed up on one another and all burning, there were some now with spaces between them, and not all of them were on fire. But I had never seen such an arrangement of houses in my life; even an Eskimo village would not have been so weird to somebody who had never seen one before. The houses were little and squarish, and the yards, as near as I could tell, were kept up pretty well. But between every three or four houses was a Nip fighter aircraft sitting in somebody's yard, like a car would've been back in the States. That was a hell of a thing. They must have had some way the fighters could taxi down the streets and out onto a strip, wherever it was--some easy way to a strip--because there were sure a lot of fighters. I counted them as I walked along but quit when I had gone by seven Zeros, three Jacks and even a Betty, which is as big as one of our B-26s. I had never shot at a Jack or even seen one in the air, but I knew the silhouette and I thought I might even climb up and look into the cockpit, just because I could; it was right there. I started over but some guy screamed at me, so I backed off and went on. That might've been the best Jap fighter, though, if they'd got it up sooner. It was a wicked-looking thing, all barrel, sort of like our P-47, the Jug. I wondered what the performance was: the rate of climb and turn. I wondered about the firepower.

Walking past the houses and fighters, which we got clear of after a while, I was with a small group of women--two with little kids--and three old men. I kept my head down and decided that if one of them said anything to me I would just mumble and shake my head, like all my words had been struck out of me or burned out by the fire. We must have gone on a couple of miles that way, and all the time the panic was leaving the people I was with. I thought that when more of it left they would begin to talk, and I hoped to be able to pick up a word or two and memorize it before any of them said anything to me. If the worst happened I could handle this bunch, and maybe even without having to kill any of them. I didn't want that to happen, war or no war. This was not the time for it.

There was almost no traffic on the road. Every now and then a military carrier would come by--a truck or something that looked like a jeep--going away from town. But I didn't see more than two or three civilian cars, or even more than a few bicycles. You'd have thought that people would be getting into everything that would run and heading out, but it might have been that the crowds in the streets kept anything from getting through, or maybe most of the cars in town were burned up--I saw at least one blow sky-high with somebody in it--or were where the people they belonged to couldn't get to them. Anyway, I had to give up any idea I might've had about a ride, either by stealing a car or truck or by stowing away in a heavy hauler with a tarp in the back. I might do something like that later if I could, but it was not going to be possible for a while. I had to walk.

More light came, and now you could see the sun behind the houses. I looked at the backs of my hands, which were as filthy black as I could have wanted, and I knew my face was the same, or maybe even blacker. But the people I had looked at, the ones I had walked out with, even though they were pretty smudged and streaked, were not--not one--as black as I was, and I was afraid that the job I had done with soot from the buildings was maybe too good and might make me stand out even more than I would have if I hadn't done it. But still, nobody said anything to me. I kept my head down, thanking God that my hair is dead-black and that I had it cut almost as short as the Japs'. I felt like that was part of my luck. But I was nervous right then; I'll tell you the truth, I was. I was between plans, and I needed to move on to the next one I could come up with.

I was in the enemy's home country, everybody was my enemy. Even if there had been one person in Japan friendly toward me, one who would do anything to help me, there was no way for me to find him. I didn't have any way to speak to anybody, even to tell him I would kill him if he didn't do what I said. Right now I was hungry and tired, though the little chill was just right for me. If I could find a place to lie down I would sleep for a long time. And I had two high-energy candy bars in my survival kit. If I could sleep I would eat them when I woke up and got going again. But in every direction, in everybody I saw or who saw me, death was there; my own death was all around me, and there would be a lot of torture connected with it.

What did I have myself? I started outside and worked in. I had my knife and the emergency kit; I had what I had brought with me. In the kit I had a compass and flashlight and fishhooks and twine, and a little short blade. I had a silk map of the area, like a handkerchief, but it showed only up to the tip of Honshu, the Tokyo island. I sat down behind a low wall between houses and took it out and looked at it. Hokkaido, the northern island where I wanted to go, showed only as a little nudge of land right at the very top of the map, but there was one place between the two islands that was fairly narrow, about 15 or 20 miles as I judged, and I might be able to get across there in a night if I could find a boat.

I went around the first turn up off the flat, looking for a ditch or bushes. There were some scrub and weeds but nothing deep, nothing dark. There was junk along the side of the road--paper boxes, a can or two and all kinds of paper with Japanese writing on it. I kept moving in the orange sun, which was getting higher and turning yellow. They had told us that Orientals didn't have any respect for life and wouldn't even help a man who fell down sick in the street or who they just came upon lying out in a field or in somebody's yard, but there was not anything like that where I was walking.

And then there was. I saw the sun, yellow now, not at all orange anymore, slant up and off glass, which, as soon as I looked, was a wine bottle, and beside it an old man was dead or unconscious or asleep. I stood off from him and waited for some other people to come by to see how much attention they would pay him. I sat down like I had some business with him, my head down on my knees; every now and then somebody would walk past. I would look up just enough to watch them pass by, but nobody even glanced toward either the old man or me. It was bright winter sunlight now, bright and yellow, and I got the feeling, stronger and stronger, that nobody gave a damn who I was or why I was there. The old man didn't move. The most important thing about him was that he had a hat, canvas, and I took it and put it on, because it had a good brim and it would make it easier to hide the shape of my eyes, which I couldn't figure out how to do anything about. But there I was, right out in the open yellow Japanese sun, with Japanese clothes and shoes on that I'd got from killing two people, and a hat from one that looked like he was already dead, with a bread knife and a survival kit and a bag with wet shoes in it. From under the hat I could look out a little better, and what struck me then was what I had noticed before but hadn't thought much about: There were hardly any young men around, or even teenage boys. The only male people I saw were little kids and old men, and that was not bad for me, not a bad sign.

I pulled the hat down, closed my eyes and stretched out by the old man. I listened to the women tiptoe past on the hard road, and even though the day was warming up by now, I brought the tree line to myself just for a minute, and then it went, and that's all I can remember of that first day out of Tokyo.

•

When I woke up it was chilly again; I sucked in the air before I opened my eyes. Then I sat up, pulled the hat down low and looked around. The old man was gone. I don't have any idea how he left. Maybe he hadn't been dead, or, if he was, somebody who knew him might have found him. He had either been alive or else his family had come after him; if people had just been cleaning up the streets they would have got me, too. Or that's the way I figured, anyway.

(continued on page 162) to the white sea(continued from page 80)

It was coming on for night, so I'd been down a long time. I was really rested. For one thing, I like to sleep on the ground, and I'd slept on a lot worse ground than that. I hadn't felt a single rock; I was just a little stiff. I got up and walked on up into the little hills. I figured to walk all night and, if I could, find a place to bed down that was darker and quieter. I wanted to be under something the next time. I wanted to find rocks where there'd be overhangs. That way I wouldn't be hemmed up. I'd have some cover, but I could scramble out either way. Always leave yourself a way out, my father used to tell me. Fight with something to your back, especially if you're fighting more than one guy. But sleep where you can go the other way from whatever's after you.

I had the old man's wine in my bag. When the night got dark enough I uncorked it and took a long swallow, and then another one. It was like sour water and kind of bitterish for wine, but my head began to work faster right away, and the good side of things started to show up. The nights were when I would use the roads, as much as I could. Any vehicle would have to show a light, and I would be where nobody could see me, before anybody could even think, before the light got anywhere near me. If people were walking on the road I could hear them, and even if I happened to run into somebody, some guy walking the other way, maybe, the advantage would be with me rather than with him. I wasn't worried about one guy, or even two or three of them, especially at night. I hadn't seen any one person I couldn't handle and handle pretty easily. I just had to keep the situation like it was and find food wherever I could and a place to sleep during the day. Those were the main things. In daylight, whenever I wasn't too tired, I could get off the roads and take off through the fields, or woods if I could find them.

I had another shot of wine and finished the bottle. The houses were farther apart now; the lights in them were low, like everybody was telling secrets.

•

Toward morning, in front of me, far off and down, I saw a heavy stand of trees. There might be something for me there, and I decided to go down and have a look. Dead-white big birds were going by at a great rate, dozens of them, and as I sat there I saw more coming from all over like they were homing in, from every which way they were getting there. I saw more than one lift its head and rear back, setting its wings like flaps, to go down out of sight on the other side of the trees. A curved line of bushes was between, and if I could get on the far side of it, away from the road, it shouldn't be hard to work on into the grove. I eased down the hill and slanted along toward the bushes. I had been in the open, or on the road, and I quickened up a little to get into the trees, where anybody would be hard put to deal with me, because trees and I have an understanding, especially when it comes to hiding from something, or getting after it.

All I heard was the whistle of wings, though, and the change in the sound of them when the birds would brake back and settle down. They were coming down on water, I knew before I saw it. I went up a tree about ten feet for a down look, put the needles aside just enough and looked out. The lake was about 30 acres, with swans all over it, hundreds of them. I had never seen so many birds at the same time, even when the geese were migrating up home. They were actually crowded, and that's something you don't expect birds to be.

It was a park, and while I sat there a few people, women with little children, came in and walked part of the way around the lake and fed the swans. Neither the mothers nor the children seemed any too enthusiastic about what they were doing, and most of them didn't stay long. I was not interested in them. I was looking for somebody who was there all the time, because there was a fence around the lake and a little shack at the side of it nearest me. I figured somebody must live there or use it in some way. Probably there was only one guy, and I waited there to find him.

It didn't take that long, or anything like it. A little girl and her mother went up to the shack and knocked on the door, and an old man in baggy clothes came out. He bent down and gave the little girl something and then went back in. I didn't have any way of knowing whether anybody else was in there with him, but I didn't believe there was; or if there was, there would likely be only one. I came down out of the tree, stretched out behind it, put my hands under my arms and went to sleep. I was hungry, but your mind gets sharper when you're hungry, and it was a good feeling in its own way. I felt good and strong, and fast, and quick.

•

I slept a long time, curled up and not too uncomfortable. When I woke up the sun was leaving. I couldn't see the lake from the ground, so I went up the same tree until I could. There were no people in sight. All I could hear was the rustle of feathers as the downy swans brushed against one another and the whistle of feathers on the ones that were still in the air, changing their beats as they pulled up and settled in. A dim light was in the shack, and I planned to wait until I knew the park was closed and nobody was there except whoever might be in the shack. With the dark I felt my strength grow until it was better than any sensation I or anybody else has ever had--a million times better than fucking or being drunk. The breath through my nose had fire in it, except that it was cold, colder than the air. I slid down and stepped clear of the trees.

It was no trouble getting past the fence: The top rail was smooth metal, and I just put one hand on it and vaulted over. The swans nearest where I came down made a shift, a little flurry, and then were just like the others, crowding, a few of them dipping their heads. I moved along toward the shack in the shadows--there were plenty of them. I got to the one little window.

There was nobody but the old guy, with light shining on his bald head in the middle of short, bristly hair. He was bent over, and I waited until I could make out what he was doing. After my eyes came good I saw he was working on something on a table, and when I could see even better I could make out it was a swan with its wings spread. The neck was in some kind of a clamp, and when I moved a little I could barely tell--but I could tell--that the old man was fixing one of the swan's legs, putting a splint on it and wrapping it with string or tape. The swan couldn't bring its head up, but the light caught its eye; there was nothing in it that had any interest. People in hospitals have the same look. I tried the door and it was not locked. Then I pushed on in, little by little.

He never heard me. For a second I stood right behind him and watched his hands work on the swan's leg. I pulled the knife and took the step, the one step. I had him under the throat, lifting him off the floor, and I ran the knife through him right to left, all the way through. I held him until he quit kicking--both legs kicked together--and then let him down slow. He was close enough to my size, and I pulled off his coat and shirt and pants. There were some bags in a corner, and I took the biggest one and put the others over him. Then I went back to the table. I cut off the swan's head and started pulling out feathers and putting them into the bag. When I had one side plucked, I cut out a piece of the leg and ate it. People have a hard time getting used to the idea of eating raw meat, but it is not really much different from the way it is when it's cooked. I ate all I wanted and then plucked the rest of the feathers. I aimed to fill the bag before I left. Then I could work for cold weather, sure enough. There were a lot of things I could do with feathers.

I needed more, though. I would have to go after them on the lake, grab the swans out of the crowd they were in any way I could. My notion was to panic some of them and force them out of the water and then take what I could get.

I left the bag in the shack and went out. The swans were just like they had been, a big shifting blur on the water, making those strange noises they make, sounding like they were a long way off no matter how close you were.

I worked the shadows and let them see me as I came nearer. There was a corner to the lake, and some of them bunched up in that. When enough of them got in, I picked up a stick and pitched it. Three or four slapped and flapped up out of the water, and I hit the shadows again and worked around. There were two left on land when I got close enough, and I grabbed the nearest one. I made the mistake of catching it by the wing and one leg, and it turned and bit me right below the eye. That thing really clamped down, without making a sound, and wouldn't turn loose till I tore it off. You couldn't believe a bird could be as strong as that one was, not even a bird that big. It bashed me with its wings and it was like being hit with a soft hammer, but one that had a whole lot of power in it, soft or not. To tell the truth, I was afraid to turn it loose, afraid it would come after me if I did, and maybe the whole lake of them would hit me then, from the water, the land, the air, everywhere. I dragged the swan into the water and held it down with everything I had, held it and kept on holding it, and after a long time it died, and I was left with that long neck in my hands and the wings down limp. All that power and the thing so light. I couldn't believe it. I went for the bag, dragged the swan into the dark and plucked it. And ate a little more, too. Then I went back into the water and found the stick I had thrown in, and from then on I used it. I found out I could get close to the swans without all that stalking, and when I did I could level a hard lick along where their heads were and I'd hit one or two of them, and one of them really hard, usually. It wasn't easy, and I missed some, but I was at it nearly all night, plucking them and then slitting them open, letting them fill with water and sink. I raised a lot of hell with those birds, and I put the bag over the fence, went back through the trees, then through the bushes and was in the open again and on the road if I wanted it. My face was bleeding pretty badly--flowing right on--and I kept trying to sleeve it off as I walked. But then I got to laughing, not a lot, when I thought of the old guy under the burlaps. He could say that I killed him for his feathers, which is the God's truth.

The bag was great. I hefted it and shook it around, and the feathers made a sound like they did when they were flying by on the real birds. I shook the bag and the feathers scraped and whistled, and I laughed again. If I could get enough of them I might fly, and I said it out loud and looked up as more birds passed over, going to the lake. Seeing the swans in flight, hearing them, it was hard not to think it, and I didn't turn my thoughts, because on that particular road, at that time, they were right.

•

I wanted to lay up a day or two and sew. I had some thread in my emergency kit, but I didn't think I had enough. I could come on more thread, though, I believed; there would have to be some wherever I went. I had two coats and two pairs of pants, all of them more or less sized to fit me, though I might have to cut a little in one place or the other; that was all right. Although it was not cold enough for it where I was, I wanted to make an insulated suit with feathers between the two layers of clothes, and then carry the suit in the bag until I was ready for it. That meant I needed one more suit for the weather until I got up into the snow, and if I were going to make the suit any time soon, I needed the extra clothes before I started sewing. When I thought it over, I decided not to do it until I had the other suit, which I would find some way to get in the next few days. That was good enough, and I went on, shaking the bag now and again for the sound.

The last part of the night I stayed on the road, checking my compass now and again, ready to get off into the fields if the road varied too much from north.

When I came out of the woods there were long fields, with terraces on the other side of them going up the hill. There were people working in the lower ones, though only a few. I made it across the first terrace by keeping as much distance as I could from any of the others, and I climbed up onto the next level, where there were only a few workers a couple hundred yards away, bent over like always. On the third terrace a man stood up, put one hand on his back and the other shading his eyes and hollered something at me. I bent down and wondered what I would do if he came to me. He didn't, and edging over a little slower than I had before, I got to the bank and went up. It took me all afternoon to work into the top field. There was a path there. Even though I was on the ridge and anybody could see me, I went along it until it dropped and led through a clump of little trees. They were spaced different, though; I didn't have the feeling I was in a real woods or among trees that grew like they would have if they were wild. I probably knew more about Japan already than I thought I did. I had noticed, for one thing, that the Japanese like to arrange whatever they can get their hands on, to have as much neatness as they can. Arrangement is big with them. I had never been in a forest of arranged trees, but it was easy to walk there, and not bad. After about half a mile I came to a house. It was bigger than most of the houses I had seen in Japan, and to the side it had those weird arches of wood that look like they might be big doors or gates, except there's never anything behind them; they just sit out in the open.

My way is to wait as long as I have to. I got fairly close to the house and set up behind a tree that lined up with another one between me and the house. Arranged trees are good cover, I could see that. As it was just beginning to get dark, about quitting time for everybody and everything except the predators, a bunch of men came along the same way I had and went to the house. A door opened--slid open--and an old man stood there, not coming down, and talked to them. There didn't seem to be any excitement in the talk and nobody moved his arms around. The Japanese are very excitable, and if the slightest little thing bothers them, whatever is not exactly what they're used to, they talk fast and loud and throw their arms. There wasn't any of that, and I took it to mean that none of them had thought there was anything strange about my being in the terraces, if I had even been noticed at all. I didn't recognize any of them, but they must have been some of the old man's workers--there was nobody else for them to be. Finally they left, and the night kept coming.

About the time the first stars started to show, a dim light changed the house. On my side there was a window, a big one, and there must have been a blind over it, because the light was not only dim but had a haze to it like it was shining through cloth, the kind bandages are made out of, or maybe slats real close together. I moved up.

I saw this as being no different from a stalk, and I used everything that was there, going from shadow to shadow and from my toe to my heel on every step. Nobody in the house could have heard me, even if he had been listening. Looking, maybe; listening, no. I stepped up on the one wooden board that took my eyes to the level of the window and started to try to penetrate. It was a blind of some kind, and the slats were real thin and close together. At first I couldn't make out anything. But when I got used to it, I could see a couple of shadows and they were sitting down. I moved side to side and up and down until I found a little chink that gave them to me. There was an old man, and a woman not quite as old. The man was sitting near a corner, and the woman was putting things on the floor, probably getting ready to eat. She was slow, and after a few minutes she got up and went into another room. To do this she had to slide a part of the wall, or panel, and she didn't make any more sound than I had. Everything was so quiet. It was more quiet than anything in the woods. She came back with some bowls and dishes, and the man, without any hurry, came and sat cross-legged where the food was, near something that looked like they probably cooked on it.

I went over everything I could see, which was not a whole lot. There were three sets of panels. Before I went in I thought it would be good if I knew what was in the other rooms, if I could find a way to look in. I moved to my left and around the corner, but there were no windows on that side. I went around. In what I took to be the back, there was a window but no light. There was a door, and I pulled on it just enough to see that it would slide. The other side of the house didn't have a window, either, so I came back to the door, pushed it open just enough, took off my shoes and went in. I could have waited until they went to sleep, but there might not have been any light then and I would be at a disadvantage I didn't want.

I was at one anyway, though; I knew I better not try to make out just by feel in such a dark place. I would be sure to hit something, trip, make a noise. I risked one step, feeling with my foot, then another, which should have put me in the middle of the room. I needed to find the other door, and there was nothing to do but use the flashlight for a second, let the setup brand on my brain, move a couple of steps, cut the light and take hold of the panel. I should come out behind the man; I figured to take them fast.

I got set for the light and hit the switch. The door with a big red dragon design on it, fire out of its mouth and all, was right in front of me, and out of the sides of both eyes I could tell that this was a room used mainly for clothes and stuff that hung up. There was a bed almost flat to the floor that I had just missed in the dark. I could have busted my ass, might even have pitched through the screen flat on my face. Luck, sure. I pulled out my long blade, made for American kitchens, and put my hand on the door; I knew which way it slid.

I moved the panel. It didn't make any sound, but he heard it. He was on his feet in a half-crouch before I could even take a step, and he was halfway to the wall before I tried to cut him off. I couldn't get the shot I wanted with my knife, but I tried anyway and missed and drove through the panel, which was paper, or something like it. By the time I pulled back, he had a sword that he held with both hands, like a baseball bat. He came at me flat-footed, and then with a low scream, like an explosion, swung the blade. I backed off and held up my knife, and it was gone like a bell had rung and made it disappear--that was his blade on mine. I heard my knife hit the wall, the panel, and for the first time since I had been in the room I made a good move: I faked and went around him, as fast as he was. I jumped faster than he could turn and was down the panel and through it and closing it before he could get to me. It was dark in there, not completely dark but almost. Now, I thought, now. And then, no, not now.

I pulled my issue knife, my short one. The panels were closed at both ends, and even if I couldn't hear them move I would know it as soon as one of them changed. I had my hand on the one I had just closed, my fingers as sensitive as they were on the line when I fished. If he moved the panel at my end I would hit him through the paper before he knew it. If he tried to put the sword through the paper, hoping to hit me blindside, he would miss and would give himself away. I'd be all over him, too. I had my eyes on the panel at the far end, and if it showed any new light I would ease open my own panel, look out and locate him.

Nothing happened. He knew I was there, somewhere along the panel, and he knew that I would try to kill him if I could, and probably his wife as well. I felt building up the need to take a risk, maybe just a small one, to find out more than I knew, standing there in the dark with half my nerves in my hands and the other half in my eyes. That couldn't last for long, and I knew it. I believed he would not think I had stayed at the same place where he saw me disappear. I slid the panel a crack, didn't move my feet, and looked out.

There was no one in the room. Now what? My first thought was that he had left the house and gone to get some other people. He might have gone out the back, the way I had come in, and taken his wife with him. But I was willing to gamble that he hadn't. One of the other things I had noticed about the Japanese, besides how excitable they were, was their pride, especially the men. The women didn't have much to say. And this old man with the sword was a soldier, a samurai, or whatever the name is, and would have that pride. He would defend his house; he would not let some stranger run him out. And as I kept looking into the empty room, more came to me. If the guy was a warrior, from the warrior class, as they say, he would not only fight, he would want to fight. He was the quickest man I ever saw in my life. He had probably been using that sword, in one way or another, for 50 years. This would be his last chance for all that training. Quick, he was quick. I didn't say fast; fast means running. I didn't know whether he was fast that way, but it didn't matter. I didn't plan to run.

The only other possibility was that he was still in the house behind one of the three other panels, and if that were so he had me in the same position that I'd had him in. He was invisible; I had to go look for him. I had to move the other panels, and he would be in there in the dark and he would be able to see my silhouette as soon as I let the light in. And that was not all: He could move from one paneled-off room to another. We could keep this up all night, until somebody made a mistake, or guessed wrong. And I was at one other disadvantage, too. I was up against somebody who could hear better than I could. I hated to admit it, but it was true. I would never have believed it in a million years.

Disadvantage; or advantage, maybe. Most of the movies I had seen in my life were cowboy movies. I hadn't seen many, but in at least three or four of them was a scene where two guys are shooting at each other from behind rocks, and the hero pitches a rock over behind some other rocks. The other guy raises up and fires in that direction, shows himself, and the good guy mows him down. Why not? I thought in the dead quiet. Why not something like that? I felt around and pulled some silk stuff off the wall--a gown or a dress of some kind--and balled it up slowly, using one hand against my side. This would have to be a soft sound, not a rock making a big clatter, bouncing off other rocks, but soft, real soft. I leaned out a little and pitched the silk so that it would fall close to the middle of the room. I slid the panel down to a fine crack and watched; this was my bait.

And finally one of the panels moved, just a hair. It was not the one I would have expected, the one opposite me, but the panel I had first come through in the room that went to the outside where I had left my shoes.

Things had narrowed down, but I was still up against his ear. No matter how quiet I was he could hear me. The logical thing would be to move down to the end of my room, which was like a long, dark hall, open up real sudden and jump him through the other panel as hard as I could and as fast as I could. But if he heard me, and he would, he would then be able to make a move of his own. He would hit me with that fantastic speed or would be gone. Or I could move out into the center of the room and dare him to come at me, but right away I knew I wouldn't do that; he had too much quick, too much training for me. The life I had behind me would not stack up to his, at least not in hand-to-hand.

I could step out, let him see me, cross the room and go in behind the other panel. That way he would have three choices. He could change panels and come into the dark hall where I would be and we could have it out. I would be able to see him come in, and he would not have all that much of an advantage in the dark. I liked that. The sound of silk had done part of it, the sound of silk falling. It might be that the dark would do the rest. I believed he would come in there with me. I had the image of him staying outside in the main room and stabbing back and forth through the panel on the other side. I felt this so strongly that I didn't believe there could be any other way to go.

I stepped out and went over. It was like crossing water so deep there was no bottom to it. The depth was the danger in itself; there is that pull. You cross on top and you know what you've been over. I got to the other side, opened the panel and closed it, knowing that he had seen me and would have to deal with my new position. It wasn't like on the other side I'd left, where I was sure I couldn't stay very long. Here, on this side of the depth, I was not worried about that; I would stay as long as it took.

Not long, not too long. The far panel opened, the light came in and stayed on the wall of clothes, on the bed between. The old man flat-footed forward, his sword at something like port arms, except that both hands were on the handle, the blade across his body, hip to shoulder. But this time was new, he was new: His head was forward, peering, in a way it hadn't been in the main room. I could maybe risk some sound, and I hit my bare heel on the floor. He took another step and swung, but he was at least ten feet from me. He swung again backhanded and then went into his crouch, in what must have been his defensive position. It was clear; it was clear, slow, then right away. Sound was his, but mine, too, if I could use it. I hit the floor again, the mat. He began to fight, but he was fighting a ghost, or maybe more than one of them. He still had that marvelous quick--I had never seen anything like it--but it all went into the dark and into his form. The moves of that long blade in the dim light were like a weave of steel, a net of metal and light. He thrust out, he pulled back, and all the time his balance was perfect. I didn't breathe and, almost caught in that net, for a second I thought I had everything. I thought I did. But I couldn't wait and I didn't; I would not ever forget. He must have been almost blind. But still quick, too quick. I led him with sound, he came in, he came onto my knife; I held it for him just so. Even though his jugular must have been cut, judging from the fire-out of blood, he stayed on his feet, still making his moves, holding his form, holding on to his ancestors who must have been soldiers, sure enough. Then, with the blood coming weaker, he went down, rolled, and I hit him through the back of the neck, cut the cord and finished him. He was still from then on out, but for me he would always be the one that made that weave of steel. Any lick would have cut through both forelegs of a bull elk, and I would always be just outside but watching; that was the best. "You're a good one," I said. "You sure are. I can use you."

I went back into the main room, got my knife, which was just like it always was except the relation was not quite the same. I needed to find the woman and started through the rooms. She was behind some clothes near the door where I had come into the house, not too far from my shoes. I ran her through twice without her making a sound. I laid her body out and put silk over it. I felt that maybe some of the good had come back into my blade, but I knew, also, that it would take more than that to get back what had gone out of it when it got knocked loose from me.

I dragged the old man's body out of the long hall and stretched it out near the table where he and his woman had been eating. I was thinking bone, long bone; I was thinking needles. If I got up as far north as I meant to, I would have to be better than any Eskimo; whatever I could pick up in the way of know-how I had better get. I peeled back the guy's sleeve and with my small knife I cut open the inside of his forearm, running the tip of the blade down the bone from his elbow to his wrist. Then I pulled a low stout bench from the wall it had been next to, laid the arm on it and brought down the handle of the old guy's sword as hard as I could three or four times. The bone cracked well enough, and I pried loose three long splinters and broke them off. The fire in the little cookstove on the table was going, with some meat in the pot, and I ate it while the bone splinters dried. It was good meat. I didn't think there would be much of it in Japan, the way the war was going for them, but this guy was rich, and I guess he could have had about anything he wanted. When I finished I took up the splinters and looked them over. They were dry now, and the points on them were as sharp as any needles you could want. I didn't want to work with them that night, but I did need to know if I could make eyes in them, so I took one of my fishhooks to see if I could penetrate the bone, and it turned out OK. I guess I could have straightened out the hooks and sewed with them, but I wanted them like they were.

I was real tired but maybe a little more excited than I should have been, so I walked around the room real slow, seeing what was there. It bothered me that there were no pictures or decorations, but I was not quite right about that, because off from the light in a corner was a little table with a vase on it and one flower. Funny, the flower didn't seem to be there in any way an ordinary person would put it. It's hard to explain, but it's like it was there as part of an arrangement from which the other flowers had been taken away. It reminded me of the jackstraws my father and I used to play with up in the cabin. You let a whole bunch of jackstraws fall any way they want to, and so far as you know they should've come out that way--even that they wanted to and knew about it before they fell, and even made it happen like it did. This flower had that about it: one jackstraw, right there, and right.

Up above the flower was a picture--I could barely make it out--of a young guy in a military uniform, probably the old man's son or grandson. I went into my first room, got my shoes from outside and lay down on the pallet. I was not worried about anything. I thought about the needles with a lot of pleasure because I had done something I never had before, and if I was going to live off the country when I got to where I was headed, as I planned to, this would help.

I slept pretty well, and it was first light when I woke up. Everything was very quiet, and I spent some time getting myself reorganized. I thought that when the sun came up the men who had talked to the old guy the day before would probably come back, but that they wouldn't come in the house without being asked. Sure enough, about eight o'clock there was a light knock at the door, and I was sure it was the same people. I sat on the pallet until they went away, and then I started going through the house for anything that I might be able to use. I didn't believe the others would be back that day. But I didn't think, either, that it would make sense to stay there more than just that day. I planned to leave before the sun came up again.

The old man and I were about the same size, though he was a little heavier. That was good, though, because the bagginess of his pants made it easy for me to fill the layer between two pairs of them with feathers. I spent all day sewing with strips of silk I cut out of some of the stuff hanging on the wall. By the time I finished I had two pairs of pants and two coats, all layered with swan feathers. That would do for a start; that would do pretty well. I needed some socks, or at least something I could wrap around my feet. And some gloves, and I found some with three fingers, but they would be all right since I didn't have anything else. I started the charcoal fire at the table and ate more meat, and then spent the last part of daylight going everywhere in the house I could, looking for light metals--anything thin and strong and, if possible, flexible. I wanted to streamline my bag, make it as light as I could and still have what I needed and not any bulkier than I could help. I had some feathers left. I could have used them all, but for some reason I didn't want to: I guess I had just got used to having them with me. The clothes I had sewn were hardly heavier than the feathers themselves, and with the other feathers, a couple of long things like skewers I wrapped up in silk, gloves, an extra pair of shoes and a hat with earflaps, I had what I wanted in the bag. That, plus the stuff I had brought with me, would be all I needed. I thought for a while I might take the old man's sword, because I could use it for hacking brush, say, or chopping light kindling. But in the end I left it, because I couldn't see any way I would be able to do any fighting with it. I wanted to remember how the old man looked when he was coming after me, like the sword was a part of him and the air in front of him was like a net, not on fire, exactly, but electric, sparking. I put some more silk over him, dark silk, and the sword on top of that, without the scabbard. I stowed the bag next to the back door by the woman's body and lay down again, and might even have laughed a little at the idea that I would be leaving before the break of light, the only American gunner in Japan who was sighting on Polaris and carrying two feather-layered coats and two pairs of pants, shoes, a flap hat, what was left of a bag of swan feathers and two pairs of three-fingered gloves.