Saiyuki story: Go West Young Men pt. 10
Title: Go West Young Men (10/numerous)
Author: Sunspot
Rating: PG 13
Pairing: 58
Note: 1830s Frontier (US) AU. Apologies for the gap since chapter 9. This installment is for Lawless.
Go West Young Men ch. 10
Encamped by the wagon, early afternoon.
Giacomo Sanzo, lately rector of Saint Louis University, cracked his eyes to an assault of sunshine and a low hum of voices. The duties he was neglecting by this lie-in, and its mysterious cause-he wasn’t ill, just groggy, occupied him scant seconds before time and place returned to him: the woods, his fool’s errand of a mission, and the sorry band of ill-starred misfits in his charge. He eased his eyes further open and rolled over to find himself on the periphery of a Winnebago hen party.
Eight women. No, seven women and Brother Clement, were seated in a loose circle in the small clearing, occupied with various kinds of handwork and talking quietly, with pauses for a slightly older woman, resembling Shunrei’s grandmother, to translate. Brother Clement was in semi-profile to him, smiling easily and working on what must be a sock, in red wool, with three double pointed needles. And clearly Sanzo had spent far too much time in the odd lay brother’s company if he recognized the tools of his less-than-masculine task.
Not that in the nearly all male world of the Jesuits, priests, and most especially lay brothers, who were generally less educated, did not take up whatever task was necessary to the running of a community. But few took them up with the relish, and the small, almost secretive smiles of satisfaction that Brother Clement brought to sewing and mending and cooking and cleaning. And knitting.
“Ah, Reverend Father,” Clement said, noticing his scrutiny. “We didn’t wake you, I hope. Godwin and Wujing are sturgeon fishing with some of the Hochunga men.”
“It’s fine,” Sanzo said, pushing himself upright. There was an extra blanket over him-the red wool of the bundle Shunrei’s grandmother had brought. Not a blanket, on further examination, an Indian-style winter cloak, with a hood. Interesting. And doubtless Sanzo would get the story of it later, from Godwin if no one else. At the moment nature called, and thirst.
Sanzo discovered himself to be in the sort of condition that one did not wish to be witnessed by a gaggle of strange women. Or familiar ones. Lovely. Keeping his back to the assembled party, he rose and made for the woods. A piss and time would take care it.
When he came back, Brother Clement had a cup of tea waiting for him. Sanzo took it and returned to sit on his bedroll and drink, mentally reviewing the customs of various peoples of the woods. Among the Menominee, who had raised Clement from an orphaned infant, men and women often socialized together, just as there were many tasks they shared. The Winnebago, on the other hand, had complicated taboos. He was not surprised to see the party breaking up, the women packing the work they had brought with them, and exchanging what were clearly words of farewell with Brother Clement, while studiously ignoring Sanzo’s existence.
As the women filed out of the clearing and faded into the woods, Sanzo rose and packed up his bedding, stowing it in the wagon, then kitted himself out in cassock and scapular and crossed to the fire for more tea. Brother Clement stayed where he was, knitting and watching Sanzo blandly. The cautionary look that Dragon gave him, raising his head from where he cropped the grass across the fire from them, was probably Sanzo’s imagination. Not that he had one.
Sanzo lowered himself to sit near Brother Clement and stifled a sigh. He was the quondam Gordon Choate’s spiritual director, and also responsible for his good conduct to the Jesuit hierarchy and to the law. Each of which role was more often than not in conflict with the others, to say nothing of any responsibility Sanzo might bear Clement as his friend.
“Have you thought about what you’re doing?” Sanzo asked him, making his voice as bland as Brother Clement’s face.
Brother Clement gave him a smile like a falseface’s mask. “I do my best not to,” he said brightly.
Sanzo snorted. “Have you been making the examen?” he asked, not that he didn’t know the likely answer.
Clement’s smile dropped. “Is this confession, or teatime?” he said, lightly still, but with an edge.
“We’re alone,” Sanzo said. “It can be what you want.”
Brother Clement set down his knitting. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.”
“Yes, right,” Sanzo said, waving the words away like the noxious fumes they were, “now you’re going to expect the Eucharist later. What have you done lately, besides the sodomy?”
Clement smiled a small, and possibly genuine, smile. “Besides the sodomy, not much that you’ll actually listen to. I still think unkind thoughts of others,”
“Not a sin,” Sanzo interjected. “Or hell would overflow.”
“And I still cling to outward forms, but lack inner faith.” Clement paused. “Also the dead wendigo, if they count.”
Which they didn’t. Then again, the sodomy didn’t either, as far as Sanzo was concerned, except as a violation of Brother Clement’s vows. There was probably a reason priesthood wasn’t meant to be hereditary. If Cosmo Sanzo had been a stevedore, Sanzo would be plying a boathook just now.
“Is it worth it?” Sanzo asked. Not that he was curious, but it was a question anyone considering perpetual vows (if Clement even was, these days) needed to ask himself.
“Is what?” Brother Clement said, playing dumb. Or pretending to. One never did know with him.
“The clinging,” Sanzo said. “To all of it,” he added, teeth gritting. He was only Clement’s spiritual director because anyone else was likely to lose whatever faith he possessed in the process. Sanzo, devoid of faith and unfortunately saddled with proof instead, was immune.
Clement was silent for long breaths. His hands twitched towards the work he’d set aside, till the brother noticed and stilled them. He looked into the woods, then at the low fire.
“My crimes aren’t possible, in your world,” he said at last, voice low.
Sanzo snorted. “Of course they are,” he said. “Only the means would differ. And the details of the motive.”
Brother Clement looked at him with the consternation of a man who had no ready answer. As if Sanzo might somehow supply one. It was annoying.
“It’s something to think about,” Sanzo said. Somehow it didn’t come out with the proper level of irritation. “Here’s your penance,” Sanzo added, bored drawl restored. “Make the examen, twice a day, for the rest of the week.”
Demanding introspection of Clement was possibly a very bad idea. But they had the gambler along to pick up the pieces, and Sanzo hadn’t been put on earth to coddle anybody.
They did the song and dance, blessings and prayers, the usual annoying tingle running head to hands and down his spine to stubbornly remind Sanzo that all of this was real. He’d do the liturgy of the Eucharist later, when Godwin was back.
What Sanzo really wanted to do was get their poor excuse for a travelling party back on the road. He settled for gathering firewood-far from his favorite activity, but it needed to be done, and Godwin and the wild man, on whom he’d usually foist such duties, weren’t likely to be back till evening.
Brother Clement sat placidly knitting, Patience on a monument, while Sanzo came and went with the sling. This close to the Winnebago camp deadwood was well picked and he had to wander fairly far afield, always keeping his eyes and ears open, and his pistol at the ready.
The woods were blandly boring. The white men had made little enough incursion here that the Indians still burned out the underbrush, making it easier going than near their first camp. Birds twittered and small things skittered, and Sanzo grew hot and sweaty, and eventually abandoned his cassock at the campsite and continued his work in shirtsleeves.
Finally he dumped the last load, and drank the dipperful of water Brother Clement handed him.
“Thank you for the wood,” Clement said, blandly as he’d knitted. The brother stowed his workbasket in the wagon and set to the beginnings of a meal.
“It will be just us for dinner,” Clement said, “I wouldn’t expect the others back till suppertime.”
The woods beyond the Hochunga camp, earlier that day
At first it had sounded kinda weird-the Hochunga men who came and asked them did they want to go sturgeon fishing. Well, Wactan, who had visited Father Sanzo, did the asking. In Delaware, which Godwin only sort of understood, kind of, and only spoke even a littler. But he was pretty sure that’s what Wactan was asking. And, well . . .
Fishing for sturgeon was something you did in the spring, when the fish were running and some rivers got so full it looked like you could practically walk across them. Rest of the year the Indians mostly used fish traps, and the white men didn’t even bother.
Then Godwin had repeated in English what he thought the Hochunga were asking, and looked over at Wujing, and saw the funny little smile on his face, and suddenly he got it: these men knew Jien, Jien was Wujing’s brother, with the same water dragon pa, so it made sense Jien could probably do what Wujing could and the Hochunga men knew it.
“Whaddaya say, Ape?” Wujing had asked him, big grin then, and reaching out like he was gonna ruffle Godwin’s hair, then stopping, like Godwin was a man now.
“Can we?” Godwin couldn’t help turning to Brother Clement-it always felt like he needed Brother Clement’s permission if Father wasn’t around, or awake. Maybe ‘cause of Brother Clement being a brother and all.
Brother Clement had looked at Wujing and smiled. “I don’t see why not,” he’d said, and Godwin had got all happy inside and it busted out in a big grin. ‘Cause he’d known this was gonna be fun!
Now they were all walking through the woods together, him and Wujing and the Hochunga party, toward where another, bigger creek came out of a lake on the far side of the Hochunga camp. Least that’s what Godwin thought Wactan had said, and him and some of the other Hochunga had acted out.
The Hochunga fishing party was five men and boys old enough to be almost men, and three kids, one Godwin’s age and two even younger, young enough they didn’t wear clothes yet in the heat of the day. They had spears, and pole snares, and a drop net, and most of all, and this kinda seemed like for sure that Jien fished like Wujing did, lots and lots of rope, looped over two of the men’s shoulders. Godwin was carrying a pole snare almost long as he was tall. It made his chest feel all warm and full to be carrying like a man, even if the pole snare wasn’t heavy or nothing.
The boy ‘round Godwin’s age, whose name was Hakahkah, was walking along with him, and sometimes he’d point something out (with his lips, not his finger, which was what was polite in the woods but white people looked at you funny if you did it in town) and tell Godwin the name for it in Hochunga, and Godwin would give him the name back in English. If he could. A lot of the things that had separate names in Hochunga were just “tree, tree, bush, tree,” as far as Godwin knew. Brother Clement probably had names for all of them. Wujing coulda maybe told him, but Wujing was up ahead with the men, having some kinda conversation with the little bits of whatever languages they maybe had pieces of, including some English words.
Godwin kind of wished Dragon was along with them. He wasn’t sure why. He was happy, and pretty safe, and they were on their way to fish, and he had other kids around which didn’t happen but almost never. Still, he kinda reached up sometimes, like he wanted to scritch the muzzle of a horse that wasn’t clomping along behind him.
The men held up a second, ahead of them, like they was deciding which way to go, or maybe talking about something ahead. Hakahkah pointed out one of the younger men, maybe five or six years older than them, and said something that sounded like “kinupera.” Then looked over at Wujing and asked it, like a question. Godwin wondered if he meant “uncle” but he couldn’t tell for sure. He tried the word anyway, then said “uncle,” and Hakahkah repeated it. Godwin hoped he hadn’t just said something really weird instead.
The men started up walking again, and so did they, turning northeast from how they’d been going. Godwin could smell the water now, and hear it, low, like the lake just kinda seeped on out into the creek, no rushing, ‘bout like you could expect in August, with the snow melt long gone and the fall rain not yet come.
Just a little while more of “zik” and “squirrel” and “minikera”” and “butterfly,” and then the woods started to thin out, and Godwin was pretty sure everyone could hear the water now, so he let himself get excited, like unclamping something inside, like if you kept your teeth all clenched, then didn’t. It had took a long time to learn that, to not let on when Godwin could hear or smell things before most folks. But Father Sanzo said it was for safety, so they’d practiced and practiced till Godwin got headaches from it sometimes. For a while he’d even worn a little yellow string, yarn from a lay brother’s work basket, around his wrist to help him remember, it was that hard.
Pretty soon they could see the lake through the last little bit of woods, and the slow, lazy creek spreading out from it, wider than a wagon road, and looking pretty deep right near where it started. Good spot for sturgeon this time of year, Godwin was pretty sure.
Wujing turned then, and gave him a grin like he was thinking the same thing. They all came out of the woods, and stood in a clump together not too far from where the creek started, looking it over. Everyone stayed real quiet, so’s the fish wouldn’t hear and spook. If Godwin listened real careful he bet he could hear things moving in the water, under the easy shussing of it coming out of the lake and going into the creek and out. He looked at Wujing again, who made a teeny tiny nod, and started undressing.
A coupla the Hochunga men were making a slip loop in one of the long ropes, then the other, and the rest were taking off their leggings, so’s they could wade. Godwin was wearing a shirt and trousers and a union suit and drawers, which was a lot to take off. He wondered if he should strip down all the way, like he usually would, or leave his drawers on, like the men did their breechcloths. He looked over at Hakahkah to see what he was doing, then had to look again.
Hakahkah had got as naked as the little boys, so that’s what Godwin should do, too. But.
Hakahkah wore boys’ clothes, and he was on the fishing party, and he’d used boy words for himself. But.
The person standing next to Godwin, all ready to help the men with the ropes and the nets and the catch poles. Well. Um. He was kinda a girl.
But then the men were handing both the big loops of rope to Wujing, and half of them were following one of the men with rope, who was playing it out as he started to wade across the creek, all quiet and careful, and Hakahkah’s uncle was part of that group and so Hakahkah was starting to follow them, and Godwin wondered if maybe he should stay on this side to keep things even, since he and Hakahkah were ‘bout the same size.
But the little kids weren’t wading in, and three little kids maybe equaled two medium-sized ones (and yeah, Godwin was strong as a man, an stronger’n some, but this was maybe one of those times when he had better pretend he wasn’t). So he put all his questions in a little box for later, and set it on top of the pile of white boy clothes up on the bank and followed Hakahkah and Hakahkah’s uncle, and the other Hochunga man with him and the man with the rope into the water that was slow and deep and cold enough that Godwin had to swallow a gasp.
Going into the creek, the same time
Wujing could hear it singing to him. Not just in his ears, but in his chest, and his hands, and his bones. The water, all its complicated little eddies and drifts and cooler patches and warmer flows, and everything it moved over, and under, and through, and all the things that moved through it, all of it alive, and all of it weaving together, like maybe the way Clem heard when he’d gone to a symphony orchestra once in New York City.
He held the two loops together, careful, in his two hands, and looked over to Godwin, who was doing okay fording with the half of the party taking the one rope across the creek. Then he looked at the men and boy and kids still on this bank with him, and gave them a nod, and turned to the water and took the first step.
Step and step, and the bank was still firm here, then another step, spongy, little bit undercut, careful. Then down and in and the sweet water folded itself over his foot and ankle and calf and near up to his knee, and the singing was all through that part of him, and Wujing could feel the strength of the creek start to flow into him.
Next foot down, easy, easy, don’t want to make any more fuss than a fish does, just one more piece of it all, and hardly had to try to do that ‘cause now he was in that water, in the creek, and moving slow and easy just like the water, down into the channel, ropes easy in his hands, to where it got deep enough so’s Wujing could just sit himself down and sink into it, maybe only the very ends of his hair floating up to the air world.
Wujing settled himself, setting on his haunches so’s he could move fast when he needed to, feeling his feet sink into the soft, soft ooze at the bottom of the channel. Water ran a little faster here, and cold. It was tawny brownish with silt from him moving, but that started to settle as he (slow, real slow) played out the rope loops, and let the current take them, so’s they stood out open, flowing away from where he held on, arms spread.
The creek was speckly with light from up top, and waterplants grew along the banks, sweeping back and forth with the eddies. Little fishes, and bugs, and crawdads took up their business again, now that Wujing was settled, nostrils shut, lungs calm, just feeling the flow, and watching the dance of everything around him, easy and solemn both, and all through him, more than the sight, or the taste, or the smell, or even the feel of all the creek on every bit of his skin, was that song, flowing through him and pulling him into it, like calling to like.
Wujing lost himself to it, gave over, all but that little bit of him, that hungry bit, the bit with teeth, as much water dragon as man, that watched and waited, and listened, and felt for when food was coming near.
Time got kind of fuzzy. Wujing could feel how the creek changed with the sun moving overhead. There were big shapes, slow and dark, wuffling along the bottom upstream from him, closer to the lake. After awhile one came closer. He could feel it suck in mouthfuls of slit and whoosh them back out again, a bass note in the creek’s long slow song. Closer it flowed, moved, sung, danced.
Wujing was still, but not too still. He was part of the creek, hair moving with the lazy current, one end of his breechcloth waving where it came untucked. He was glad he’d changed into the leggings from Shunrei-a man shouldn’t go naked in company, but he’d a felt damn silly in the creek in his drawers.
The sturgeon eased closer. Wujing was a strange thing, but not too strange. The ropes waved like water grass.
Wuffle, wuffle. Pause. Whoosh. Wuffle, wuffle. Pause. Whoosh.
He could feel it close behind now. Wujing did his best to be ready without tensing, without looking like a live thing that could move fast and strike and take what it wanted. Just a little closer.
It was a big ‘un, man sized, and coming up alongside. The time to wait for was the “whoosh,” when the silt and gravel it spit out made the sturgeon blind.
Wuffle, wuffle. Pause.
And right with the “whoosh,” Wujing struck, looping the ropes ‘round the fish quick as a striking watersnake, and uncoiling his body and pulling back hard with both arms, so’s the loops went snug around the thrashing body, fish nearly as big as Wujing was and Wujing was about the tallest fellow around.
The ropes went tight with the fish fighting and the men pulling and Wujing flailed back out of range and worked himself upstream, half walking, half crawling, then standing up, feeling the dizzy rush as his passages opened and he sucked in air and the water’s song, roaring and fierce now with the sturgeon’s struggle, started to leak out of him and back into the creek, and part of Wujing wanted to go after it, to sink back into the flow and the current, and that was why the first rule for a half-breed dragon was never, never learn to swim.
Wujing looked over at the far bank and Godwin working the rope with his little friend, not pulling more than a boy’s share, smart kid. And shook off the creek and its music and pulled himself back up the bank and went to help the side that was bringing the big fish close in, where a net or a pole snare could do its work.