Zaa— Zaa— Zaa— Zaa—
The sound coursed along Fifth Street.
“What the hell is going on?” the bartender wondered. He stood on the stoop and peered at the waters swirling beneath the steps.
“The taxi!” the boyfriend wailed. “Where’s my taxi!”
“Button it,” said Setsura Aki. The reverberations made him think of winter frost. The bar was wrapped in silence. “Can’t you hear it?” Setsura pressed. “Can’t you?”
“Not at all,” the bartender answered.
“Not at all,” the boyfriend echoed.
“I can.”
Setsura slid off the stool. He went to the window and slid it open. The expected wave of heat did not sweep through the opening. Instead, he breathed out white mist. He could see his breath. When the road became a flowing river, the heat had turned to a bone-chilling cold.
“All will bow their heads and wait,” Setsura intoned, staring intently at the rushing waters before his eyes. “Even the heat. Obviously somebody is putting on a production. But who is directing the play?”
Born in fire to reign in ice. And somebody was arranging a coronation ceremony behind the scenes.
The bartender craned his head. “I hear it,” he said in a small voice.
“I hear it,” the boyfriend said.
From the far reaches of the river in the direction of the Hilton Tokyo, a sweet and painful melody accompanied the eerily approaching world that flowed towards them.
The sound of a koto.
✦ ✦ ✦
“They’re coming,” Setsura Aki said. “Just like in the legends.”
At the same moment, he couldn’t have known that those same words were being repeated in the corner of a nightclub in Kabuki-cho.
The sound drew closer. And something else as well. The bartender began to shiver, and it wasn’t just because of the cold.
Setsura saw it first, emerging from the depths of the darkness. A black ship glided toward them. The oddly raised bow of the boat appeared first. Two masts. The sails were furled. An old and weathered hull.
Not steel. A wooden ship, not one from this era. Ten oar holes dotted the hull at the waterline. Wooden sculls stuck out of the holes, hovering horizontally over the surface of the water.
“There are people there,” Setsura heard the bartender say behind him.
The silhouettes of three people on the deck. Three people who looked back at them.
On the left was an old man with white hair and beard, thin as a crane. Next to him was a girl. She still had youth left in her. Her luxurious black hair was tied up in buns behind each ear. Her large eyes flitted about her surroundings, taking it all in.
The third person had a young and graceful countenance. Between his full eyebrows was a small dot, like an embedded pearl. All of them were decked out in Chinese clothing gorgeously woven with threads of silver and gold. All their eyes focused on Setsura.
The girl disappeared. She’d left to fetch somebody.
The sound of the koto ceased.
The girl returned with a new person. It was as if a halo of light had blossomed between the girl and the old man. That was how radiantly attractive this new woman was. On a par with Setsura, with Doctor Mephisto even.
Her black hair fluttered gently to one side in the wind, casting a shadow across her snow-white skin and white robes. Standards of beauty changed with the years, with the eras, and from country to country. But the beauty of this woman—no older than twenty—was eternal and immutable, surpassing every possible expectation.
The sound of the koto rang out. Setsura couldn’t see her hands, but they must have been playing the music.
Their eyes met for several long seconds. The ship crossed from right to left, from the heart of darkness toward the heart of Shinjuku, where some rough beast was waiting to be born.
Setsura silently watched as the ship slowly slipped by.
The koto sounded again. A voice like a silver bell began to recite a poem. Setsura translated the ancient language in his head.
Crossing the waters we’ve crossed before
Seeing the flowers we’ve seen once more
Spring breezes along the riverbank roads
Before we know it, we’ve made our way home
The verses wafted through the frozen night air, evaporating as they reached his ears. These four strangers were right now sailing to Shinjuku.
Setsura looked at the quiet moon high in the night sky.
“That’s a nice smell,” the bartender mumbled to himself. “Perfume? From what country?” He wiped his face with his hands.
Setsura noticed it as well. The heat was making a comeback.
“The water’s retreating,” the bartender observed.
Without a second glance at the sparkling wet pavement, Setsura shut the window and returned to the counter.
“What happened just now?” the bartender asked. “It’s like being inside a living dream. That happens a lot around here, you know.”
“Maybe so,” Setsura said, grasping his glass of tea. “But there are dreams we’re better off not seeing. Dreams that should not become real.” He drained the remainder of the tea.
The boyfriend cried out, almost on the verge of tears, “Hey, hey, where’s the taxi?”