Soul of the Night: Beginnings
folder
Erotica › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
1,027
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
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Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Erotica › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
1,027
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Chapter 1
Japan, 1864
“This is such an insult,” a thunderous voice cried out, followed shortly by the crash of shattering glass.
Huddled under a thick cloak to ward off the last rays of golden sunlight cutting through the hills beyond Magome village, Kiyoshi stopped outside the dusty little inn where the uproar continued. Well, it seemed like an uproar compared to the peace and quiet he’d encountered throughout the rest of the town. Truthfully, it was nothing more than two men shouting and more broken pottery as one of them threw another piece against the wall.
“I’ve never been more offended in all my life. You call this sake? This is just piss-water you’ve left out in the sun.”
Ah. An upset patron. A very upset patron. Kiyoshi cocked his head to one side and listened carefully.
Dutifully, the innkeeper tried to assuage the enraged man. “I’m sorry it’s not to your liking, sir.” He sounded tired. No, bored. That would be a better way to describe the flat tone. “We have other casks of sake in the cellar that might be of higher quality.” Yes, there was definitely a hint of sarcasm to the ryokan owner’s voice.
“I’ve come three times this week and tried three different vintages. They’re always cheap and terrible.”
“Maybe it’s not the sake that’s cheap, but the customer,” the innkeeper’s wife grumbled. Kiyoshi heard the unmistakably irritated tone of her voice from where he stood outside. Her words were soon followed by the sound of shattering glass as the patron threw another sake cup against the wall.
“What have I done to deserve this?” he wailed, on the verge of tears. “I come here looking for a decent meal, some good sake, and this is what I get? You want to pick my pockets too?”
“Of course not, sir.” The innkeeper sighed. “The shame is mine for not serving better—”
“No—save your excuses.” The patron stood with a rustle of material. “I’m leaving.”
Sure enough, the man burst out of the inn wearing an expression of wounded pride. His high, striking cheekbones were colored a shade of pink that made Kiyoshi wonder just how much sake he had tried before deciding how terrible it was.
“Why do the Gods punish me so?” he cried out dramatically at a passerby who politely bowed in acknowledgment and scurried away.
“You.” The man pointed at Kiyoshi quite boldly. “If you’re a wandering musician, stay away from this establishment—they have no appreciation for fine culture and artists.”
“I’m a simple farmer as most are around these parts.”
The man seemed to wilt like a fresh-picked flower set out in the sun, his delicate-looking lips turned down in a pout.
“Oh Gods, this is what I’m reduced to, acting for a bunch of inbred farmers who wouldn’t know culture if they were drowning in it.” His slim shoulders slumped and he dragged himself down the paved dirt street. “Oh Gods…” he sighed again.
Kiyoshi watched, then found himself following, though he usually preferred to keep to his own company whenever possible. The man’s inner turmoil heated his blood, sent it coursing through his veins enough for Kiyoshi to pick up the sweet scent on the cool evening breeze.
They made their way down the dirt road, passing a few vegetable stands and some rather suspicious smelling carts of “fresh” fish. The man darted around the corner at an ink shop and stopped alongside the wall. Kiyoshi heard him waiting on the other side, his body pressed against the building, the stiff knot at the back of his belt scraping the dry wood. Curious, Kiyoshi poked his head around the bend.
“You are following me,” the man cried. “Why would a farmer follow me? Gods! The yakuza sent you.”
Kiyoshi shook his head. “No.”
The man squinted at him and then his eyes widened in dismay. “Oh no,” he moaned. “Then he sent you. Oh Gods, I’m going to be assassinated in a backwater village by a boy no older than my last kouken.”
“No one sent me,” Kiyoshi assured him. “I was just curious. You’re an actor.”
If anything, the man became more dismayed. “The best to ever grace the stage.”
Humility clearly wasn’t his strong point. But then again, he’d had rather a lot to drink. The rich, earthy scent of sake filled his blood.
“Do you…enjoy kabuki?” the man asked hopefully.
Kiyoshi nodded and bowed to the stranger. “I have seen a few performances in Kyoto and Edo, both times the lead actor was incredible. He was so graceful and so engrossing in the part he played.” Kiyoshi paused. “I believe his name was Nomura—no, Nakamura. Yes, it was Nakamura.”
The man gasped, his delicate hand flying to his throat. “Oh, you’re just saying that to make me feel better, aren’t you?”
“I don’t understand.”
The man touched Kiyoshi’s sleeve, then pulled back. “When did you see these performances? Do you remember the plays performed?”
“I saw the first about ten years ago in Kyoto and the second a few years later in Edo. It was the same play actually—The Love Suicides at Sonezaki.”
The man whimpered and slumped back against the building. “It was me you saw. I debuted in Kyoto ten years ago. I took the theatrical world by storm and look at me now. One stupid mistake and I’m a wanted man suffering though bastardized Noh drama for illiterate inbreds who wouldn’t know an onnagata from a jar of rice powder.”
“You were wonderful,” Kiyoshi recalled. “I didn’t recognize you now, I’m afraid.”
“How could you?” Nakamura gave a depressed sigh, looking down at himself. “I’m wasting away, fading into nothingness along with my career, my art, my dreams…”
While the actor continued listing the many things he expected he would soon lose, Kiyoshi listened with growing interest. It was obvious Ryuhei Nakamura exaggerated his grief, his words and manners dripping with theatrics. But the bottom edge of his yukata was soiled with dust from the road, and the midnight blue color of the linen had faded to a dull, dreary gray. His long black hair was pulled away from his face and carefully gathered with a red cord at the base of his neck, but without any sunflower oil to keep the delicate strands from getting tangled.
Kiyoshi frowned. “You really must be in a mess.”
Nakamura stopped in mid-sentence and buried his face in his hands. “Finally, someone who understands.” His shoulders started to shake like he might be crying, but Kiyoshi couldn’t smell any salty tears.
“Are you sure you’re not an assassin?” Ryuhei asked, peeking through his fingers. “It’s better if it ends now, you know, before the loneliness kills me…”
“I wouldn’t be a very good assassin if I admitted it, would I?”
Ryuhei gasped, then shrank back against the building, his gaze darting as if seeking an escape route.
“I was joking, Ryu-san. I am but a simple farmer and sometimes a wanderer.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.”
Nakamura relaxed, but his blood still rushed with the power of his fear. Kiyoshi licked his lips even as he reminded himself that he had no cause drinking from a human until the deprivation weakened him.
No matter how thrilling it was.
“This is such an insult,” a thunderous voice cried out, followed shortly by the crash of shattering glass.
Huddled under a thick cloak to ward off the last rays of golden sunlight cutting through the hills beyond Magome village, Kiyoshi stopped outside the dusty little inn where the uproar continued. Well, it seemed like an uproar compared to the peace and quiet he’d encountered throughout the rest of the town. Truthfully, it was nothing more than two men shouting and more broken pottery as one of them threw another piece against the wall.
“I’ve never been more offended in all my life. You call this sake? This is just piss-water you’ve left out in the sun.”
Ah. An upset patron. A very upset patron. Kiyoshi cocked his head to one side and listened carefully.
Dutifully, the innkeeper tried to assuage the enraged man. “I’m sorry it’s not to your liking, sir.” He sounded tired. No, bored. That would be a better way to describe the flat tone. “We have other casks of sake in the cellar that might be of higher quality.” Yes, there was definitely a hint of sarcasm to the ryokan owner’s voice.
“I’ve come three times this week and tried three different vintages. They’re always cheap and terrible.”
“Maybe it’s not the sake that’s cheap, but the customer,” the innkeeper’s wife grumbled. Kiyoshi heard the unmistakably irritated tone of her voice from where he stood outside. Her words were soon followed by the sound of shattering glass as the patron threw another sake cup against the wall.
“What have I done to deserve this?” he wailed, on the verge of tears. “I come here looking for a decent meal, some good sake, and this is what I get? You want to pick my pockets too?”
“Of course not, sir.” The innkeeper sighed. “The shame is mine for not serving better—”
“No—save your excuses.” The patron stood with a rustle of material. “I’m leaving.”
Sure enough, the man burst out of the inn wearing an expression of wounded pride. His high, striking cheekbones were colored a shade of pink that made Kiyoshi wonder just how much sake he had tried before deciding how terrible it was.
“Why do the Gods punish me so?” he cried out dramatically at a passerby who politely bowed in acknowledgment and scurried away.
“You.” The man pointed at Kiyoshi quite boldly. “If you’re a wandering musician, stay away from this establishment—they have no appreciation for fine culture and artists.”
“I’m a simple farmer as most are around these parts.”
The man seemed to wilt like a fresh-picked flower set out in the sun, his delicate-looking lips turned down in a pout.
“Oh Gods, this is what I’m reduced to, acting for a bunch of inbred farmers who wouldn’t know culture if they were drowning in it.” His slim shoulders slumped and he dragged himself down the paved dirt street. “Oh Gods…” he sighed again.
Kiyoshi watched, then found himself following, though he usually preferred to keep to his own company whenever possible. The man’s inner turmoil heated his blood, sent it coursing through his veins enough for Kiyoshi to pick up the sweet scent on the cool evening breeze.
They made their way down the dirt road, passing a few vegetable stands and some rather suspicious smelling carts of “fresh” fish. The man darted around the corner at an ink shop and stopped alongside the wall. Kiyoshi heard him waiting on the other side, his body pressed against the building, the stiff knot at the back of his belt scraping the dry wood. Curious, Kiyoshi poked his head around the bend.
“You are following me,” the man cried. “Why would a farmer follow me? Gods! The yakuza sent you.”
Kiyoshi shook his head. “No.”
The man squinted at him and then his eyes widened in dismay. “Oh no,” he moaned. “Then he sent you. Oh Gods, I’m going to be assassinated in a backwater village by a boy no older than my last kouken.”
“No one sent me,” Kiyoshi assured him. “I was just curious. You’re an actor.”
If anything, the man became more dismayed. “The best to ever grace the stage.”
Humility clearly wasn’t his strong point. But then again, he’d had rather a lot to drink. The rich, earthy scent of sake filled his blood.
“Do you…enjoy kabuki?” the man asked hopefully.
Kiyoshi nodded and bowed to the stranger. “I have seen a few performances in Kyoto and Edo, both times the lead actor was incredible. He was so graceful and so engrossing in the part he played.” Kiyoshi paused. “I believe his name was Nomura—no, Nakamura. Yes, it was Nakamura.”
The man gasped, his delicate hand flying to his throat. “Oh, you’re just saying that to make me feel better, aren’t you?”
“I don’t understand.”
The man touched Kiyoshi’s sleeve, then pulled back. “When did you see these performances? Do you remember the plays performed?”
“I saw the first about ten years ago in Kyoto and the second a few years later in Edo. It was the same play actually—The Love Suicides at Sonezaki.”
The man whimpered and slumped back against the building. “It was me you saw. I debuted in Kyoto ten years ago. I took the theatrical world by storm and look at me now. One stupid mistake and I’m a wanted man suffering though bastardized Noh drama for illiterate inbreds who wouldn’t know an onnagata from a jar of rice powder.”
“You were wonderful,” Kiyoshi recalled. “I didn’t recognize you now, I’m afraid.”
“How could you?” Nakamura gave a depressed sigh, looking down at himself. “I’m wasting away, fading into nothingness along with my career, my art, my dreams…”
While the actor continued listing the many things he expected he would soon lose, Kiyoshi listened with growing interest. It was obvious Ryuhei Nakamura exaggerated his grief, his words and manners dripping with theatrics. But the bottom edge of his yukata was soiled with dust from the road, and the midnight blue color of the linen had faded to a dull, dreary gray. His long black hair was pulled away from his face and carefully gathered with a red cord at the base of his neck, but without any sunflower oil to keep the delicate strands from getting tangled.
Kiyoshi frowned. “You really must be in a mess.”
Nakamura stopped in mid-sentence and buried his face in his hands. “Finally, someone who understands.” His shoulders started to shake like he might be crying, but Kiyoshi couldn’t smell any salty tears.
“Are you sure you’re not an assassin?” Ryuhei asked, peeking through his fingers. “It’s better if it ends now, you know, before the loneliness kills me…”
“I wouldn’t be a very good assassin if I admitted it, would I?”
Ryuhei gasped, then shrank back against the building, his gaze darting as if seeking an escape route.
“I was joking, Ryu-san. I am but a simple farmer and sometimes a wanderer.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.”
Nakamura relaxed, but his blood still rushed with the power of his fear. Kiyoshi licked his lips even as he reminded himself that he had no cause drinking from a human until the deprivation weakened him.
No matter how thrilling it was.