Rei no Sekai

1 – The Last Empress

April 2221, Tokyo

    I see the spires of Tokyo, with vegetation crawling up and over. A bear—a bear!—ambles into its Seven-Eleven lair. A pair of drunks stagger across the street. One drops a bottle; it shatters and a woman screams. The wind groans through hollow, brittle concrete and steel towers. I can smell the ocean and a rain soon to fall.

I AM a reporter. The woman I’m supposed to interview lives in a hut at the foot of a bridge that stretches over the horizon. Desperate shelter—flattened cans, plastic and broken wood A blanket for a door.  Hundreds of similar shelters huddle along the bank of the river.
    I shout. No answer. I curse myself. I got lost on the way—I dawdled, I drank, I remember very little. What if the Last Empress of Japan should die before I get my story?
    The last of her line, she held on to the end, watching her subjects flee or turn to dust. She did her duty and more.
    I enter and wait for my eyes to adjust. She is alive, just barely. I watch her shallow breathing for a moment. She lies under a blanket on a pallet of straw. Her eyes open, blink twice. She stares at me-—a face that has seen one hundred and forty-two winters.
    I’ve got to get this fast. Time is running out on her, and if her, me.
    “So how does it feel to be the last-—''
    She lifts a hand to stop me. “Take me outside. I don’t want to die in here.”
    I lift her as gently as I can—bones like smoke. Her face tightens in pain.
    My jacket for a pillow, she lies on a flat patch of grass, sighs, and sleeps.
    I wait. Rain clouds crowd the sky, erasing the bridge’s tower-tops. She opens her eyes and tries to smile. I repeat my question.
    She’s still sharp, no hesitation. “It doesn’t feel like anything. I stopped being an Empress decades ago. Some of the officials, the ones left in the palace, argued. But we ignored them. I packed a few things. We left and were happier among the people.”
    I gesture back over my shoulder at the ruined city.  “What happened?”
    “You already know the answer. Why ask me? Ask the men and women who stopped having babies. Ask the government—there’s still a few of those crooks around, I expect. Vermin, cockroaches, all of them. But what does it matter, most everybody’s gone now.”
    She was right. It was well-worn story. Almost no one had noticed the pages turning slowly, so quietly. The only ones enjoying the descent were the bloodsuckers in their guarded towers and their minions—pimps, whores and thugs.
    “Then tell me what you remember, what you experienced.”
    “I remember my wedding. So young and so happy. I was scared. I remember eyes—my mother’s, my father's, but mostly my new husband’s--—the man who would sleep beside me for the rest of his life.
    “He was twenty-five when we were married and one-hundred and two when he died. That’s a long time to love someone, don’t you think?”
    “What else do you remember?”
    “Everything, but mostly the last few years. I guess we always knew he’d go first, but I pushed the thought away. Half of me gone, maybe more. I couldn’t face it.
She closed her eyes, drifting away.
    “So...” I prompt.
    She doesn’t open her eyes this time.
    “He died. He was brave and tried not to let me see the pain. He didn’t want to be a burden and frighten me. Men! I held him in my arms and eyes and he finally died. I never loved him more than at that moment.
    “Maybe a week later he died. Before the end I cried, I couldn’t stop myself. He wiped my tears away and told me he loved me. I held his body as it grew cold.”
The rain begins gently, little splashes on her cheeks, settling in the wrinkles. “He always loved the rain,” she whispers. That was it.
    I watch her body for a long while. Finally I walk away, wiping rain from my cheeks.
    “Hey, wait!”
    A young voice buckles my knees.
    “Don’t be afraid.”
    She’s sitting cross-legged, offering me a brilliant smile. Edging closer, I notice she’s wearing jeans and a tight T-shirt. I guess I’m not moving fast enough for her. The Last Empress vanishes and reappears, close enough to touch.
    She’s twenty-five again—slightly translucent, slightly blue and more than slightly beautiful.
    I stammer, “Uhh, uhh...ghost?”
    She laughs, “Forgedaboutit. I’m a spirit. Ghosts are spirits with a grudge.” She makes a face. “Yucky creatures, really, you better stay out of their way. They can be a real handful.”
        I am still a bit wobbly, standing nose-to-nose with faintly blue royalty. This would be easier if I was drunk, a state of being I’m too familiar with. But this is sobering and frightening.
    She grins at my discomfort. “I’ve got an idea. You want to know what happened, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, I can see much better now. And so could you if you come with me.’’
    She holds out her hand.
    No way. I’m not ready for that.
    But one does not defy an Empress, even a dead one. She takes me by the hand and I can’t resist.
        “There,’’ she says, “That wasn’t so tough was it?”
    Now I’m annoyed. My headache is returning, my hangover is worse and she’s playing games with me.
    “What are you talking about? Nothing happened.”
    She laughs. “Something very definitely happened, trust me.”
    The Empress points to the bridge. “Why don’t you go for a walk. It’s quite a hike. It’ll give you a chance to clear your head. There’s a real nasty piece if business going on out there.”
    I start to object, but like a subject dismissed, I am forgotten.
    The Last Empress sits, pats the ground next to her and speaks—but not to me. "I always knew I’d see you again old man. “Come here and give us a kiss.”

Next week: What did the Empress do to me and why is that man impaled on a construction crane?

2 – The Butcher of Waikiki

Jan, 17, 2232, on the bridge

    I see gray-black. The winter sea merges seamlessly with the sky. Lightning hisses through the air, illuminating the bridge in a photo-flash. Huge ocean rollers moan as they hurl themselves against the pilings.  A police cruiser whines overhead.

MY STOMACH burns with bad tequila. That’s the culprit. No such thing as spirits. The Last Empress died and that was that. All the rest, well it just didn’t happen.
    I tell my self I better as I approach a couple of guards at the entrance to the bridge. Might as well go take a look. My boss hates me and doesn’t want to see my face in the newsroom anymore than I want to see her’s.
    I flash my press pass. They ignore me and continue a conversation on infidelity. What the hell, I get right up in their faces, ignoring their guns and whips. Still no response. It’s like I’m not even there. Just more yak-yak about who’s getting into who. I shout, I wave my arms. They don’t even blink and now I’m getting scared.
    I shove the closest cop in the chest. It’s enough to unbalance him and he falls on his ass. The other, I slap in the face. Not too hard, not to hurt, but enough to scare him, just like they are scaring me. It works. Everyone is now scared half to death.
    That’s enough. I start running and keep going until the cops are out of sight. Out of breath and still shaky I slump to the curb and close my eyes.

    I passed the time thinking about the Empress. What did she mean they were counting on me? I stopped once to write up my story and e-mail it to the office. As usual there was no reply.
    I called it the end of the bridge, didn’t I? Well, that’s not true. There is no end. It just stops. If I were to keep walking I’d fall off the end, splashing down in the Pacific.
I hear a sound, a weak cry muffled by the wind. No one in sight, until I look up. There he is, fiftyish construction worker wearing a hard hat.
    Impaled on the hook of a derelict crane, he dangles a couple of meters from the unpaved roadbed, blown about by the wind.
    His bluish tinge is not from the rain and the cold: he is my second spirit.
    “Does it hurt,” I shout to make myself heard over the storm.
    “What?”
    “The hook?”
    “No, of course not.” He wriggles a bit to prove his point. “And please keep your voice down. You’ll wake them.”
    “Who?”
    “Them.” He points at a shack on the other side of the bridge. I walk to the shack, curious.
    “Don’t,” the spirit on the hook warns.
    The shack is jammed with a gray amorphous mass. I look closer. Shapers emerge, nearly transparent. There must be dozens of them, all writhing about like sea lions fighting for space on a beach. Tiny pink eyes blink, blink. Scarlet mouths growl, burp and snore.
    Retreating, I ask the spirit. “What the hell are those things?”
    He shakes his head sadly. “My ghosts. They’re asleep now but when they wake up it’ll start all over again.”
    “What?”
    “My torment. Everyday the sit around drunk on cheap sake, telling stupid jokes and yelling at me.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I killed them.” It’s raining but I’m sure he’s crying.
    “What happened?” There’s that question again.
    He talks for five minutes. I hear individual words and a few complete sentences. But the result is nonsensical gibberish. It is obvious I am dealing with a politician.
As he babbles on the squall passed and the sun comes out. At least I don’t have to shout.
    “Speak more clearly. I can’t understand you.”
    “You’re a reporter, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “They never complained before.”
    “They should have. Now start over.”
    He takes a deep breath, readjusts himself on the hook and begins again. The second time through I understand. It is a sad tale and I feel sorry for him.
    Without warning, a horrifying caterwauling erupts. The ghosts pour out of their shack. About two meters tall, they are formidable, scary creatures. A mob bounces across the bridge and surround me. They look like gray, see-though duffel bags. With tiny arms and no legs, they bounce around in a frenzy. A few lose their balance and topple over; two are so excited they sail right over the bridge railing and into the ocean.  Pink eyes glaring, they all yell at once.
    I hold up my hands and shout, “Shut up.”
    No one is more surprised than I when they obey. They seem wary of me.
    “I hear you have a grievance with this spirit.”
    That sets them off again. Screaming louder than before, they launch empty beer cans and sake bottles at the spirit. He groans in some discomfort at they pass through his body.
    The biggest ghost shouts, “The Butcher of Waikiki!’’ and the rest of the mob take up the chant. It goes on and on. When it looks like they’ve tired themselves out, another ghost yells, “Maui Monster!” They all laugh and burp  and one of the smaller ghosts finishes the impromptu demonstration with “Alamoana Ass!”
    “OK, OK, you got that out of your system?”
    They nod but I know it’s only a temporary reprieve.
    I point to the spirit. “Haven’t you tried talking to him? His story sounds pretty reasonable to me.”
    This elicits a ghostly din of hisses and boos. “Sure, we tried,” the big ghost says.         “We can’t understand a thing he says.
    Something tells me, just a feeling, there’s a way out of this mess. I look up at the spirit. If you ever want off that hook I think it’s important you talk to them. Explain yourself in language they can understand.”
    The spirit clears his throat and begins: “Well, as every Keynesian economist knows–''
    More boos, more hisses and more flying beer bottles.
    “Try again,” I encourage. “You can do it.”
    “The country had fallen apart long before my time,” he begins. “Maybe it was that fool of a prime minister early in the 21st century. His ravings certainly made things worse.
    “Ancient history,” the ghosts object. “What about us?”
    “OK, fine. I was the last construction minister. Nobody was having babies and the population had fallen off a cliff. Maybe it was a bad idea but I thought if we built a bridge to Hawaii it would be like a route to the rest of the world and people would come.”
    The ghosts nod. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
    “Let’s face it we were desperate,” the spirit continues. “The building went fine for awhile, but the only workers I had were old people and they tired easily.”
    “Yeah, yeah, we were always tired.”
    “I know. I told you it was voluntary. I told you to take a break.”
    “But, but…” the ghosts mutter.
    “But what?” I ask.
    They look embarrassed. The littlest ghost speaks for the group. “He,” he points at the spirit. “He was working so hard. Nobody wanted to be the first to leave the office. It’s bad form.''
    “So he really didn’t kill you. You worked yourselves to death.”
    “Uh, sort of.”
    “Could it be it really wasn’t his fault?”
    “Well…”
    “Hey, what happened to you?” the big ghost asks the spirit.
    “You were all dead. I had a heart attack carrying a bucked of cement.”
    “Just like us.”
    “Just like you.”
    The ghosts stop their inane bouncing and look at each other.
    “Isn’t it about time you forgive him?” I ask.
    They huddle. There is a bit of grumbling but mercy wins out. The big ghost shouts, “Come on down! Come on down!” and they all take up the cry.
    The spirit falls from the hook and lands in the middle of his ghosts. But not ghosts—they transform into grudge-free spirits. They pat the minister on the back, bluish smiles all around.
    The smallest of the spirits shouts, “Beer run, beer run! New guy’s gotta go!”

Next week: Who was that fool of a prime minister and how did he make things worse?

3 – The Wall Calls

August 2099, the hinterlands

    I see a mountain plateau in sunlight. The grass is scorched, its tips the color of the hot August sun. I see a thatched cottage and an elderly spirit working. Laughter from somewhere behind the cottage punctuates his curses. Shirtless, shades on, I feel good. I have been cold too long—the sun warms my skin.

    I spot my quarry—Taroshinta “Raging Bull” Nishigara. First a big city governor, he rose to prime minister early in the 21st century.
I shout at the spirit. “Hey, Nishigara.  “How’s it hanging?”
    He turns and glares but continues working. He is building a wall around his property, using materials from no Earthly supply yard.
    “What do you want?” he snaps, picking up a block from a pile in front of the cottage. The blocks are turquoise, scarlet, fern—every color you can think of and many you cannot. He carries an aqua block and sets it in place in the wall. For the moment the block does what blocks are supposed to do: It sits.
    “Now, who are you? And how dare you address me with such disrespect?”
Nishigara wears a work shirt and jeans. There are terrible rents, claw marks, in jeans and shirt—I see variegated pus and timeless wounds. A bear must have got its claws into him, maybe last year, maybe a decade ago.
    “I’m a reporter.”
    “Then you will address me properly as former Prime Minister Nishigara or—“
    The aqua block squeaks, a neighbor purple block squawks, and they fall out of the wall—plop, plop. Much of the east wall tumbles to the ground.
    I laugh as the blocks chitter-chatter and slither back to their pile.
    “What are you doing,” I ask, careful to append the honorifics.
    “Are you a registered member of the reporter’s club?”
    “They don’t have one for dead prime ministers.” I’m on shaky ground, but it sounds reasonable.
    “As any dolt can see, I’m building a wall.”
    “What for?”
    “To keep the foreigners out.”
    I look around. No barbarians at the gates. Nobody at all, just some laughter behind the cottage—could it be them? “What foreigners?”
    “Any foreigners.”
    “What’s wrong with foreigners?”
    Nishigara chases down a light blue block. “What’s wrong with foreigners? Nothing at all. I think they’re great. They got me elected prime minister.”
    “They all voted for you?”
    He laughs. “Foreigners can’t vote, you fool.”
    “Then I don’t understand.”
    “Don’t let it give you a headache, journalist.”
    An amaranthine block wiggles out of the wall and scurries away.
    Nishigara shrugs. “Maybe this is a good time for a break.”
    We sit on the warm grass. He says, “You want the long version or the short?”
    “The short—I have space limitations.”
    “Good, so do I. In a few minutes the wall is going to demand my attention. I was Governor of Tokyo when the economy went in the dumper. The banks went bust and took all the loser companies they were protecting with them. Millions were out of work. The streets were lathered with homeless. It was a wonderful opportunity for me and I took it.”
    “To do what?”
    “To take over the government, of course. I devised a can’t-lose campaign strategy. The voters flocked to my rallies.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I gave them someone to blame. My slogan was, “Out damn Chinese! Out!” and we even had a little radio ditty advising people to change their locks.”
    “So it was just the Chinese?”
    “Nah, any foreigner was fair game. Hell, what did it matter? It was just politics. The public lapped it up. I had a million posters printed up saying, “Arrest, detain, deport!”
    He jumps to his feet, cries, “The wall calls,” and rushes over to pick up a block.
    “What happened to our break?”
    “You think I like building this thing? I’ve been watching these blocks run around my front yard since the day I died. I have no choice.”
    “Somebody’s not happy with you.”
    “No kidding.”
    I try to pick up a ginger block from the pile but it slips away. No one but Raging Bull can touch the blocks.
    “So you were elected?”
    “In a landslide,” he says, lugging a black block over to what is left of his wall. “And I kept my promises. The jails were soon chock-a-block with gaijin.”
    “What about the deport part of the slogan?”
    “Sure, I kicked out thousands, but I kept as many as I could in jail as a deterrent. I probably would have been OK if they hadn’t started hanging themselves in their cells. Next thing you know I had those Peace Boat wimps all over my butt.” Nishigara gently sets the black block on the wall. It stays just long enough for him to finish his story.         “Nobody ever gave me any credit. At least I made the trains run on time.”
    “They always did anyway.”
    “Whatever. The end came when I unveiled Japan’s first nuclear weapon. Hell, it was only a little bomb but when those ninety-year-old crones from Hiroshima began their march on Tokyo I knew I was finished. At least I went out like a real man—a big bottle of scotch and one short step off the roof of the Prime Minister’s residence.”
    Raging Bull should have attracted a legion of ghosts.
    “Who’s behind the house? Ghosts?”
Nishigara laughs, “Don’t I wish. Even they won’t have anything to do with me.”
    “Then who’s back there?”
    “Nobody. Forget about it.”
    I want to see for myself. Nishigara follows, a pained expression on his face. I round the corner and pull up short. Nishigara was right—no ghosts. Just three young spirits. Happily ensconced in three lawn chairs, they sip umbrella drinks and watch a solar-powered TV. All are shirtless and shaded.
    One  calls, “Yo, dude,” and motions me over, clearly glad to see a visitor. He whips me up my own umbrella drink and another drags over a lawn chair. Nishigara glowers and remains standing.
    We watch the World Cup final to its conclusion. The U.S. humiliates France 8-0, and there are cheers all around.
    “So who are you guys?”
They all answer at once. One’s Chinese, one is Pakistani and the third from Afghanistan. They have the same transparency and lighter shade of  blue as all the other spirits I’ve seen.
    I look at the Raging Bull. If a spirit can blush, he’s doing it. “Foreigners?”
    He’s effectively speechless—“Uhh, umm, ehh….”
    The spirits laugh. “Pretty funny, huh?” the  Pakistani says. “He’s such a pompous ass he figured he needed servants. The Japanese spirits turned him down flat and so he’s stuck with,” he looked at his friends, and they shouted on cue: “Foreign workers!”
    Nishigara slumps to the ground. No one offers him an umbrella drink.
    “It’s a great job,” the Afghan says. “We just clean up cottage, watch the tube and party. If we get bored we watch him build his wall. It’s hilarious. Right after we got here my grandfather showed up as a ghost, but I calmed him down and he went back to our village. He’s got some great stories on the Bull in his prime, if you’re interested.”
    I relax and sip my umbrella drink. Just as I’m getting a pleasant buzz Nishigara screams, “The wall calls!” and rushes off.
    Everybody laughs, and the Chinese spirit raises his drink. “Here’s to happy endings.”

Next week:  All hell breaks loose. Who’s that shooting a me?

4 – Adoring Blue

July 1, 2002, Kakarak, Afghanistan

    I see black sky with stars torn red by tracers. I hear too much: the whump-whump of helicopter rotors and a lumbering AC-130 gunship. Too close—the whip-crack of AK-47s and a large gun pounding. I am flat on my back, I don’t know why. I feel the earth tremble. I smell cordite and dust.

I CURSE my luck—no umbrella drinks this time—and run like hell for cover. No one challenges me at the gates of a mud-walled compound.     Expecting a spirit or a ghost, what I get are still breathing humans with mental states ranging from joyous to psychopathic.
    They are grouped in three corners of the compound. The joyous—women and children—are holding a wedding celebration. Kids run under tables laughing; friends chat and eat.
    The men of the village occupy another corner. They stupidly fire automatic weapons at the sky in the middle of a war zone. There are aircraft above and fingers on triggers. No good can come of this. I can’t find a spirit to interview and would, if I could, walk out.
    The real action is in the third corner and I am afraid that’s where my story is—or will soon be. An old Russian anti-air gun sits on a truck. Three men in black turbans work the gun. Shells pop out intermittently to no effect. Red tracers decorate the sky but that’s about it.
    Sweat drips in my eyes, stinging. A hot night and I feel hotter inside. I’ve been in some tough spots but my gut tells me I’m not getting out of this, at least vertically.
Forgive me. I know what’s coming.
    Two women in burkhas confront the gunners. One is shouting from the ground, the other clambers aboard the gun. She pulls the arm of one of the men, imploring. The other is yelling in Pashun at them to stop firing. Her fear grows and a few Japanese words slip out.
    I touch her on the shoulder.
    “Are you nuts? Get out of here, she shouts. “They’ll kill you.’’
    Am I nuts? Like I have a choice.
    The woman is shoved off the truck and lays stunned, sprawled in the dirt. The gun loader leaps down. He puts the muzzle of an automatic against her temple, fires and kills her. Blood splatters the shooter’s face, my clothes, the Japanese woman’s burkha. He wipes his face and looks at me—my turn. His eyes open wide—infidel. He lifts the gun and fires.
    The woman jumps and takes my bullet in the chest. I catch her as she falls.
Trigger fingers twitch. The sky goes nova. It’s radiant; it’s beautiful and ever so loud. Not defiant pop-pop or angry ack-ack—this is the end. A curtain slams down on the village.
    I wake in a narrow alley between two buildings. The woman is still in my arms. A single star fades. Black turns to gray. Memories hurt. Something yellow-green crawls inside me. I vomit and wait. No one disturbs us—you can hear dying at a distance.
    She keeps me waiting. The air is sweet, too sweet—thickened with blood.
    Have you seen the morning sun reach out? Have you seen it stroke women and children with a brush of adoring blue? I have, from my knees.
    I turn my back on the men, locked in shadow, now and forever. The gun crew is dead, the gun gone. Once men, they lie flattened, deflated in deep ruts of tire tracks, surely the depths of hell.
    A weight lifts from my arms. My spirit is kneeling on a green cushion. Her kimono is adorned with purple cranes nibbling pink clouds. A shy smile on her face, as if she’s embarrassed. Translucent blue is now my favorite color. It feels safe.
    “Well,” she prompts.
    Shell-shocked, covered with blood, my thinking is slow. I try to recall why I am sitting in an Afghan compound littered with corpses. I don’t know what she wants.
    “What happened?” I ask.
She begins her life story—a do-gooder. I want to scream. No! What happened to me! She doesn’t choose to remind me she saved my life. I can’t find the space to remember.
    “… and  then I came here two years ago.’’ I don’t know how long she’s been talking. Or how long I’ve been forgetting.
    “I wanted to help, and the government sent me here to teach Japanese. That lasted about a week. Not much need for nihongo here. I joined a group of volunteers building wells in the region.
    “I’ve been in this village a week.” She sighs, “It really didn’t work out and I was going to leave tomorrow.”
    I rub at the blood on my shirt and try to do my job. Feeling like crap, I ask about the U.S. invasion just to irritate her.
    She takes the bait. “I hated it. I was angry every time I saw a U.S. plane or soldier but…”
    “But what?” I try to hurry her along. I hear random rifle fire and a lot of shouting.
    “But after the coalition came in things quickly got better for most Afghans in most places. It’s still hard for me to believe killing solves anything.”
    “Last night?”
Her eyes flash. “I said most places. This isn’t one of them. The men here are either Taliban or sympathizers. Those guys on the guns were foreigners, Yemeni or Saudi.”
    I’m still scared. There’s nobody to strike out against accept this gentle spirit in her beautiful kimono. Sarcasm isn’t much of a weapon but it’s one I’m familiar with.
    “So the Americans are good guys now?”
    My spirit traces patterns in the dust with a high-gloss nail. She speaks slowly, as if to a child.
    “If they wanted the al-Qaida that bad they should have put troops on the ground and killed them. Shooting up a whole village with a gunship is no kind of answer.”
She lifts her head and glances around. ‘’There are too many new spirits here. Most are women and kids.’’
    A cellphone rings. Not mine. I’d always refused to be chained to the newsroom. But it’s persistent—ringing and wriggling in my shirt pocket—and alerting every malevolent murderer in the compound.
    I snatch it up and whisper, “Whoever you are, this is not a very good time.’’
    “How the hell did you get out of Japan?’’ a woman yells.
    “Huh?”
    “Never mind. We’ll figure it out. Just get your butt back here and bring Mayo with you.’’
    “Mayo?”
    “The woman that died saving your life, you disgusting, ungrateful fool.

Next installment: Who’s on the other end of the phone and what are they going to figure out?