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A Gentleman of Strength

By Dwale

It had been an ill-omened tournament. Ame's train had been delayed twelve hours due to unseasonal flooding, then he'd gotten lost between the station and the hotel. He'd been unable to get a cab and was forced to take a rickshaw, the driver of which seemed none-too-pleased at the prospect of hauling a hundred-and-fifty kilogram moon bear with two suitcases. At the hotel, he found their new computer network wasn't compatible with his credit card. It was only by pleading with the staff that he had to be at the arena in twenty minutes or else risk the fury of his managers that they'd capitulated and agreed to arrange a shuttle for him.

In the end, he'd missed the portion of the opening ceremonies in which he was supposed to take part, which was inauspicious, but not the worst thing; his role was a small one and his absence would go largely unnoticed. No, far worse was the altercation between the mayor and the president of the Sumo Association.

The mayor, a vixen of middling age, had wanted to say a few words, since this was the first tournament to be held in the newly-refurbished arena. That had been approved ahead of time and wasn't a problem of itself. The issue was that she'd expected to give her speech in the center of the clay platform, the _dohyo,_where the matches would soon take place. No one had told her that the platform was consecrated ground, and women weren't allowed to touch it.

Ame had watched the latter part of the argument on closed-circuit television from his changing room whilst wrapping his mawashi. On it was Hirasawa, a bear of mixed descent and president of the Sumo Association, making a deep, apologetic bow to a fox one-third his size, explaining, "It is to our regret that we must inform you it is quite impossible for any woman to touch the dohyo."

"Watch me," was her reply, and she made as though to step around him, but eyed the dozen or so rikishi dressed in the ceremonial loincloths with fixed aprons known as kesho-mawashi, all arrayed behind him like a barricade of flesh, and thought better of it.

"I am the mayor," she reminded him coldly. "I'm the one who pushed the council to make these renovations!"

"You are indeed the esteemed and honorable mayor," said Hirasawa, who stood up straight only to bow down low again, "which makes it all the more regrettable that our venerable tradition dictates the impossibility of any woman touching the dohyo."

She'd sworn, "I won't forgive this, you..." before storming off without giving her speech.

A hell of a way to start things off, all had agreed, and the negative trend had only continued from there. On day four, Ame had snatched defeat from the jaws of victory by suffering a sudden sneezing attack. On day ten, in a happening so rare as to be almost unheard-of, his mawashi had come untied, the abrupt nudity resulting in disqualification in addition to profound embarrassment. He didn't think of himself as a superstitious person, but the altercation, coupled with his own misfortunes before and after, portended bad luck in so plain a fashion that even he could not ignore it. That was why, on the fifteenth and final day of the tournament, as he walked down the corridor on the way to his last match, he stopped at the little devotional statue of Nomi no Sukune, god of sumo.

Nomi no Sukune had lived long before the coming of the juujin and was almost always portrayed in human form for this reason, though Ame suspected that the statue itself predated the occasion when the first juujin had been pulled from its gestation tank by at least a few decades. There were flecks of paint still attached: blue for his robes, flesh-tone on his arms and face, but most of it had fallen away. There was a smooth trough on the front of the pedestal which was not part of the design, but had been worn into the stone by passers-by who believed a touch would bring them luck. How many of them had been rikishi in situations not unlike his own, he wondered, and had it done them any good?

Without thinking, Ame reached out and touched the smooth spot, as so many had before him. Someone who must have been at least as desperate as he was had left a fresh cantaloupe at the base of the statue. That was an expensive piece of fruit, with a cost about equal to half a laborer's weekly pay. Some security guard or janitor was likely to be happy risking a god's wrath in order to bring something like that home to his wife.

Ame, though, didn't happen to have any cantaloupes on him. Instead, he twice clapped his hands, holding them together like a steeple, and bowed his head in reverence.

"I am not the sort of man who begs for things," he prayed, "but I have given my entire life to sumo. I have never needed a win as badly as I need one today. So, if it wouldn't be too much trouble..."

He wondered what Okarai would say if he could see him standing there, praying like that. It would probably be something like, "The only way that statue's going to help is if you smash the other guy over the head with it. Remember your training, idiot, and focus!" And he would have been right.

He took a deep breath, held it, and cleared his mind before exhaling. That done, he went to take his place and await his destiny.

***

The arena was only half full, and only that much on account of the fact that the last day of a tournament always falls on a Sunday. Sumo's popularity had been on the wane since the death of Okarai, who had been the greatest wrestler in a hundred years. With no comparable replacement to hold their attention, the youth had drifted away from the sport; most of the spectators were retirees. Most, but not all. From his place at the end of the corridor, Ame could make out a raccoon-dog couple with three young ones intent on the action. If he'd been out and about in public, he would have made a point of smiling at them, but with the competition looking on, he had no choice but to wear his game face. Still, it cheered his heart whenever he saw young fans, to know that there would be another generation to carry on the traditions to which he had devoted himself.

It was almost enough to make him forget how crucial this match would be. His record for the tournament thus far stood at seven wins, seven losses. A victory today meant advancement in rank, minor to be sure, but it would be enough to put him in position to claim the title of komusubi at the next tournament, provided he could put up the right numbers. On the other hand, a loss meant a demotion, again, minor, but it would put the rank he coveted further from his grasp, and that wouldn't do. His backbones popped like bubble wrap when he got up every morning and his ankles never stopped hurting, not even when he took painkillers, something he was forced to do more and more frequently these days. He knew he had not many matches left in him. The way he saw it, he had to win.

The senior yobidashi, an aged tortoiseshell tom with the look of an alley-cat, dressed in the blue and white handyman coveralls symbolic of his menial office as one who tends the ring, held the folding fan to his chest as he summoned the competitors by chanting their ring names in the traditional style: a somber melisma. Ame slapped himself on both cheeks and started down the aisle.

His ring name was "Kuroyama," written with the characters meaning "black mountain". It had been well-chosen in his youth, given his coloration, height, and impressive build at that time. In addition, evocation of a mountain touched a number of chords with natives, who regarded the heights as sacred places, but also wild and dangerous, spirit-haunted, and unforgiving. It didn't resonate in the same way with foreigners, though, and in any event, his fur hadn't been entirely black for a long time. A friend had told him that some of the younger wrestlers had taken to calling him "Nezuyama", "grey mountain", behind his back.

His opponent was a yak from across the sea, rust-colored, with large, dark eyes that glinted with moisture whenever the light caught them. Ame's mouth drooped into a sullen frown as he took in the measure of him, the slicked-back hair adopted because it wasn't yet long enough to form the top-knot required of all rikishi. The nubs of his polled horns were faintly visible amidst that tangled and shaggy mess of a head. More than anything else, Ame could not help but stare at the broad, cloven hooves with equal parts contempt and trepidation. It was as if the yak had come in with bricks strapped to his feet.

He did not hate ungulate juujin, but he hated wrestling them and did not approve of their presence in the professional ranks. In the early days, with humankind in its twilight and the rise of the juujin who were to be their inheritors, sumo had not had to make many rule changes, only a few additions such as stating that claws had to be blunted and that the tail, if present, could not be pulled. But that had all changed when the ban on ungulates had been lifted.

Even as Ame watched the bovid walk across the dohyo, he noticed the way his hooves scuffed the surface. He scowled at the clunky and graceless things that had necessitated so many changes to the sport he loved. The problem wasn't just that hooves damaged the dohyo, but that they could break ankles and crush toes, and while the overhauled rules made plain that kicking or initiating foot-on-foot contact constituted grounds for an immediate disqualification, that was of little solace in the face of an injury that could knock a _rikishi_clean out of a tournament. It had happened to Ame more than once.

He wasn't alone in his resentment either, as most stables would only take in an ungulate under orders from the Sumo Association, who wished to keep cries of discrimination at a minimum. For this reason, juujin of ungulate stock were rare, the sport being dominated by moon bears like Ame who made up more than sixty percent of all rikishi, and upwards of ninety percent in the top division.

This was not just because bears were strong and ferocious, though they were both those things. There was also the fact that having such stubby tails eased the wearing of the mawashi, the only attire worn during a bout, since it was essentially just a long streamer of silk. Wrapped and knotted into place, it did not permit a simple hole for the tail as other garments did. Those of other phenotypes generally had their tails docked when they entered the sport, as having it dangle from the mawashi was not only unsightly, but terribly uncomfortable. That said, the primary advantage of bears over others was something else entirely.

Bears are plantigrade, that is to say, they walk on their heels as humans had done, as opposed to walking digitigrade, on the toes in the manner of a cat or dog. Digitigrade locomotion emphasized speed over strength; bears were far more able to apply full power to their movements, and the extra traction afforded by having greater ground contact was often enough to swing matches in their favor against nimbler, but less steady, digitigrade opponents. Ungulates lacked any such advantages, as the confluence of hooves and bipedalism had been the result of genetic tampering, not natural selection, and ill-conceived at that. Their smooth soles and tenuous balance made them susceptible to toppling from a shove of even moderate force, and because of this they attempted to compensate by being monstrously huge, as was the case with Ame's opponent today.

The yak's ring name was "Ikubi", and to say that he was big didn't do him justice. Standing well over two meters tall and with a weight advantage of at least fifty kilos, he dwarfed Ame, who noted with mild dismay that he wasn't exactly petite himself. Not only that, but Ikubi's bulk comprised a higher percentage of muscle mass than Ame's did, to judge by the sight of him. He was all biceps with a chest so hard, it looked like it could stop a truck. If it came down to physical power, there was no way Ame could win.

There was more to Sumo than strength, though, otherwise it would just be stylized weight-lifting. No, there was far more to it than that, and rikishi who excelled in only one dimension could not expect to prosper for long. One needed ring sense to avoid losing by step-out, and a certain agility to respond to the push-and-pull without losing balance. It called for laser-like focus to juggle all the variables in one's head, but, paradoxically, also the muscle memory to act without thinking. In short, superior technique would win out against power almost every time, and that came with experience, something Ame had in spades, but that Ikubi, professional for only two years, did not. Of course, trainers always said that the most important aspect of Sumo was toukon: "fighting spirit". Ame wasn't certain whether he had the right amount of toukon or not, but if he thought of it as the desire to win, then he felt sure he would walk away the victor today. He mounted the _dohyo_from the eastern side, the scents of sweat and damp clay like fog in his nostrils.

A common saying was that most bouts were over in less than ten seconds. However, that was only true if one didn't include the preparations, the rituals, and the mind games, which could take up to several minutes. The two rikishi_went through the motions with a degree of simultaneity suggestive of choreography, though that was coincidence. First, they each approached the corner on their respective sides where the implements waited. Then they performed _shiko, extending first one leg as high and as straight as possible before bringing it down into a stomp and squatting afterwards, then repeating the movement with the other leg. Each time, Ame's ankles would register an acute, almost paralyzing pain. It took everything he had to keep from wincing, but he knew he had to endure it without letting it show on his face, else the pressure for him to retire would be all the greater.

The shiko done with for the moment, they received a wooden ladle full of power water. This was always handed over by a rikishi whose luck had not been tainted by a loss on that day, preferably by the most recent winner from the east or west side, as appropriate. The power water was used to rinse the mouth, then spat into a bucket, but not without holding up a piece of power paper to spare the audience the indignity of watching someone spit. During this time, junior yobidashi walked the edge of the dohyo, holding banners representing the match sponsors, of which there were six on this occasion. After that, each rikishi would take a handful of coarse salt and toss it into the ring as he entered, and then would face his opponent, performing the shiko again before squatting down and extending the arms to show that yes, the almost-naked men were unarmed.

After all that, surely the match could begin? Guess again. All of these ritual elements, the shiko, the throwing of salt, stemmed from Sumo's close association with Shinto mysticism: the shiko was a form of exorcism, and to this day, a yokozuna was summoned yearly to the capital to perform it at the grand temple there. The throwing of salt had similar connotations, being thought to establish ritual purity. Even the clay of the dohyo itself was said to represent the earth, the wooden canopy above it, the sky. This ritual dimension was not merely traditional, but an intrinsic component that could not be neglected. It was all part of the game.

None of this was to say that the rikishi were mindful of the purpose and symbolism in their rites as they retired again to their corners to towel off and slap themselves on the thighs or belly in an attempt to break the other's focus.

Throw salt, reenter the ring. Stare down the opponent, put both fists on the clay as if about to charge, but do a little pushup instead. Thrice the two wrestlers went through these motions, ostensibly in an attempt to psych each other out, to rattle the other guy's nerves. Ame had something else in mind, though. On each return, he noted increasing tension in Ikubi's expression. The yak was becoming impatient. The bull wanted to charge, so why not let him?

This time, he touched his right fist to the clay carefully, deliberate in his placement, then lowered his left fist even more slowly than that...and twitched. It was only the faintest contraction of his muscles, but it was enough; Ikubi came barreling at him like a locomotive and slammed into him so hard it almost knocked the wind out of him. Ame offered no resistance and rolled onto his back so forcefully that he just about did a reverse somersault.

Ikubi was wearing as smug a grin as Ame had ever seen by the time he got back on his feet. He relished watching that expression turn to confusion, then anger, as Ikubi noted that the referee, rather than calling the match, was telling him to retake his position. Since Ame's left fist had not actually touched the ground and he had not charged, it was a false start. They would have to try again.

For his part, Ame tried to look frightened. More importantly, he tried to look as though he were trying not to look frightened. "Just a washed-up old man," his face said, "rush at me, come bowl me over."

That bit of acting complete, the bear and the yak faced each other once more and crouched, putting first the right hand down, then the left, and they charged, sort of. To be more precise, Ikubi charged, Ame executed a henka, which is to say, he sidestepped.

Ikubi's tremendous bulk went sailing right past him; it was a thing of beauty. Ame brought his broad palms down one after the other, battering Ikubi on the neck and the back of the head. It was true that he had not so much strength in his arms as he'd had in his youth, but there was yet more than enough power in them to fell a vulnerable, off-balance opponent, and Ikubi collapsed onto the _dohyo_like a sack full of bowling balls.

The referee pointed his ceremonial fan to the east side of the ring and named the winning technique with a shout: "Hatakikomi!" - "Slap-Down." The match had lasted all of three seconds.

Ame took his place at the edge of the ring and squatted low, whereas Ikubi stood opposite and bowed, acknowledging the defeat, although the glint in his eyes seemed not so much soulful, but rather a manifestation of white-hot rage. The reason was not hard to infer. Ikubi was not angry that he had lost; even the greatest wrestlers would lose some of the time. No, he was angry that he'd lost because of a henka.

In all of Sumo, no move was so maligned as the sidestep. It was seen as a cheap ploy, undignified, and dignity was expected of all rikishi, especially in the uppermost division. The very word "rikishi", while written with the characters meaning "strong man", carried with it so many connotations of class that it might be better rendered into English as "gentleman of strength". On the other hand, the _henka_was perfectly legal, if discountenanced, and Ame was in no position to be picky about his victories.

Ikubi exited the ring as the referee offered Ame a stack of envelopes, one for each company that had sponsored the match. There was money in them. Holding his hand vertically, Ame made three chopping motions, right, left, center, and took the prize. The crowd cheered as he headed back to his changing room, triumphant.

***

He handed over the prize money to Okiku, the stablemaster's wife, before even changing clothes, as, like in many stables, it was the stablemaster's wife who handled finances. Half of the money would go to the Sumo Association to pay dues, the other half would go into his bank account. It wasn't a large sum by any means, but it was nice to have. Maybe he would buy souvenirs with it.

Back at the hotel, Ame washed and took a nap before changing into his kimono, this one a bright purplish-pink which would have been considered inappropriate for a male in society at large, but Sumo wrestlers were allowed to be a little flamboyant. After that, he went to visit his stable's hairdresser. There was an after-party to attend and there would be fans present. Rikishi were not permitted to appear in public without having their hair in a topknot.

Conveniently, the lounge they'd rented for the party was located in the same hotel in which Ame and the majority of his stable were staying. It was a large, open area with no windows, sparse of décor, with the paneling and furniture all stained a deep brown. Candles burned on the tables, and the bar was the only area with any direct electrical lighting, though even that was on the dim side. The overall effect was both rustic and modern, inviting attendees to relaxation, and to converse in soft voices. The subdued atmosphere was reinforced with quiet piano music. There were a hundred or so _juujin_there, all exhibiting civil behavior for the moment, though that was like to change as the booze continued to flow.

So far as he knew, there were unlikely to be any members of his fan club to meet so far from his hometown, so he made a beeline for the bar and ordered a boilermaker of the new world variety: a beer with a shot of whiskey in it. He didn't answer his computer when it vibrated. There were niceties to observe in regards to the other wrestlers, congratulations for the winners and consolation for the rest, always promises to train more, to fight harder next time. Ame drifted through it all as though on autopilot, having endured this exchange of pleasantries too many times in the past to put much heart into it now. It wasn't until he ran into Hirasawa that he had anything resembling a real conversation.

Hirasawa wore a three-piece suit in the western style. A heavy bear back in his ring days, he had slimmed down since assuming a desk job. He was a bit older than Ame, though not as grey. Ame suspected there was dye to thank for that, something his nose confirmed. His surprise must have been evident on his face because Hirasawa gave him a mischievous smile.

"Ame-zeki."

"Hirasawa-san."

They bowed. Hirasawa motioned that they should sit, then ordered himself a rum and cola. Time passed in silence while they worked on their drinks, and they didn't look at each other, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Ten years previous they had been rivals, before a back injury took Hirasawa out of the ring forever, but any bad blood there might have been was long forgotten.

"I'll bet you're wondering what has brought the president of the Sumo Association to your humble gathering," he said. "In fact, I've come to talk to you."

"I've already told you," Ame replied, wary. "I'm not retiring until-"

"Until you reach komusubi, yes." Hirasawa interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. "Forget komusubi. If you were this immovable on the dohyo, you would have been yokozuna by now."

"If all of my opponents were as tenacious as you," Ame retorted, "I would have retired by now!" That earned him a smile from Hirasawa, who had always been pleased by flattery, if not swayed by it. Then they fell silent again. More time passed as Hirasawa seemed to collect his thoughts.

"You had a good tournament," he said finally. "You and the raccoon both."

"The raccoon? You mean Ichikin?" Ichikin was another up-and-comer, young and with good skills. He'd been performing well in the division thus far. Ame had faced him twice now, losing the first time and winning the second.

"As you say, speaking strictly off the record, I think he'll be promoted to komusubi. He won't hold it, though; he's too inexperienced."

"You mean..." Ame began, it clicking in his head what Hirasawa was getting at.

"I can't guarantee anything, but if you can put up eight wins in Fukuoka, I think the odds are good. The fans want to see you do it too. However..."

"I know. If I pull it off, I'll announce my retirement at the tournament after that. But if I don't..."

"Then you'll keep wrestling until they're carting you to the dohyo in a wheelchair." Hirasawa drained his drink in a gulp, then stood and clapped Ame on the shoulder.

"Good luck," he said. "If you'll excuse me..."

Hirasawa was gone, leaving Ame alone with his thoughts, for how long he couldn't say, but long enough to finish off two more boilermakers.

"Kuroyama-zeki!"

Ame turned and got a look at the person who had called him, a stoat in slacks and a button-up shirt. His posture was wobbly, a fact emphasized by his long torso, and the stench of liquor wafting off of him was enough to knock over even the strongest rikishi.

"You're Kuroyama-zeki, right?" the stoat asked.

Ame nodded. The stoat invited himself to take a seat while Ame wondered whether he was about to have to sign an autograph or have a picture taken or what, but it turned out this fan had something else in mind.

"I can't believe I'm talking to a guy who got a kinboshi from Okarai! How did you manage that?"

A kinboshi_simply meant a win over a _yokozuna by a rank-and-file wrestler of the _maegashira_tier. Each such win came along with an annual bonus to one's salary for the remainder of his career, so _yokozuna_were pressured to give out as few as possible. Okarai, dominant as he was, had only given out nine during his reign, one of which belonged to Ame.

"He went for my mawashi," Ame said, his tone measured, having recounted this story many times before, "and I went for an over-arm throw. I think it surprised him because I had never tried that in practice, but in any case, he shifted his weight and I went down with him. We hit the ground at almost the exact same time. Even on the slow-motion replay, it was hard to say who had won."

"It was controversial," the stoat said. "I was young then, but I remember people talking about it."

"Yes, but I never worried about that. When we faced each other afterwards, the two of us made eye contact and he gave me a little nod. We both knew, in that day, in that one match, I was stronger." Ame chuckled quietly. "Of course, we were from the same stable, so we never would have fought in a tournament if we hadn't been the last two challenging for the Emperor's Cup. I never beat him in practice after that. He was on another level."

"You were his tsukebito at one point, right?" the stoat asked, trying in vain to flag down a server. "Were you like, friends?"

"Okarai was everyone's friend," Ame said, but when he saw the stoat about to voice dissatisfaction with that answer, he added, "I suppose I knew him a little better than most."

"Well, what was he like?"

"He was strong, that more than anything. Big as he was, he could bench-press more than twice his weight, and-"

"No, no," the stoat interrupted, rude as sandpaper. "I mean, what sort of person was he?"

Ame hesitated, as he always did when the questioning went in this direction. Taking care not to frown, he dished out the routine he'd contrived for the newspapers. "He was kind. Even as a yokozuna, he always made time for the new wrestlers and helped us train. He was fun to be around, always joking, and he never had a bad word for anybody. He was everything a yokozuna should be. He truly was as great as everyone says."

That seemed to be what the stoat had wanted to hear, and he wandered off to bother someone else a short while later. Uproarious laughter issued from the other side of the room, where a gaggle of the younger rikishi were telling bawdy jokes.

They're too loud, he thought to himself. That would be my cue to leave.

In fact, he was merely using that as an excuse. The truth was that talking about Okarai always put him off his mood, so he'd lost what little taste he had for mingling. He was almost out the door when he noticed that Andagi, his tsukebito, was walking at his side. The kid was stealthy for a bear and didn't talk much, which was what Ame liked about him. The fact that he worked hard and never balked, no matter what was asked of him, was just icing on the cake.

"Andagi" was neither his ring name nor his birth name, being similar in meaning to "doughnut". He'd been so nicknamed because of his weakness for that particular food; he bore it in good humor, as he did with most everything. He showed a lot of promise and it wouldn't be long before he had tsukebito_of his own. Ame would be sorry to lose him if he was still wrestling, but glad at the same time. The sumo lifestyle was harsher than any boot camp, especially for the juniors who had to do all the chores on top of the brutal training regimen. It was often said that the greatest day in the life of a _rikishi was when he earned his own tsukebito. Maybe once Andagi did that, people would call him by his actual name.

As it stood, Andagi would be a manservant for a while yet. He still wore wooden flip-flops instead of the more comfortable straw sandals permitted to upper-ranked wrestlers, and the cotton bathrobe called a yukata instead of a kimono. It could have been worse, though, since Ame had a soft spot for the kid and tried not to overburden him.

"Where are we going, Kuroyama-zeki?"

At that question, Ame's thoughts turned to the prize money he'd won that day.

"Have you eaten yet?"

***

There were only four other patrons in the noodle shop they visited, two male and two female, probably on a double date: a rat, a dog, a sheep and a rabbit. The manager had joked on welcoming the two wrestlers that the restaurant was especially honored, now with rikishi, after already serving one-third of the zodiac, but the party of youths were too busy tittering to notice.

Sumo was not popular with the young people of the day, who cared little for tradition. They saw in that eatery only two overweight bears with hair and clothing centuries out of fashion. They didn't understand that those same bears trained six hours a day and were incredibly strong, that the weight was necessary to keep from being slung around the ring like ragdolls. Nor did they grasp that the topknot had been the preferred hairstyle of warriors, designed to help keep one's helmet in place. Ame paid them no mind. He found that disrespect bothered him little when it came from people he could crush into pulp.

Ame's computer vibrated, he reached into his pouch and switched it off without looking at it. Andagi cocked a brow at him.

"My wife," Ame explained. "I'll tell her I left my computer in the hotel room."

"Everything ok?"

"Yeah, yeah," Ame said. "It's just... our daughters are both in school, and she says she gets lonely during the day. She wants another cub."

"So give her one," Andagi said, shrugging. "You can afford it, right?"

Ame slurped up a mouthful of soba before answering. "It's not the money, I'm just old! How much longer am I going to be around for this kid?"

When Andagi next spoke, he did so with care, annunciating each word as though fearful of mispronouncing it. "If we spend our lives only worrying about how much time we have left, no one would ever do anything. That's how I feel about it, anyway."

"Damn, guy," Ame teased, "I think that's the most I've ever heard you say. What's got you so chatty?"

"You seemed upset ever since that drunk asked you about your senpai. Thought maybe you needed to talk."

"You heard all that?" Ame asked. His mood soured a little just from remembering it.

Andagi nodded. They finished their food and didn't speak again until they were walking back to the hotel. The streets were dark and empty, lending their trip a dismal, haunted air.

"Andagi-zeki," Ame said suddenly, "if I tell you something, do you swear to keep it a secret?"

Andagi nodded and Ame, trusting him implicitly, unburdened himself in a flood, thinking that perhaps his mixing of painkillers and boilermakers had been imprudent, but unable to stop once he'd begun.

"Back when I was Okarai's tsukebito, he took me out drinking one night--the man loved his alcohol, as I'm sure you've heard-and he had a few too many. Then he had a few more. It ended up with me having to help him walk and well...I said some nasty things about how drunk he was.

"He laughed and said, 'If you think I'm drunk now...' and started telling me about this time he went to visit his home village. It was just after he'd become yokozuna and he wanted to see his parents and celebrate.

"While he was there, he paid a visit to this girl, Mei-Rin, his childhood friend. He got drunk and tried to seduce her, and when that didn't work, he forced himself on her. When she threatened to go to the police, he bribed the village elders to make her keep silent about it. It would have ended his career, you know."

Andagi listened with his characteristic stoicism, neither face nor posture betraying anything of his thoughts beyond attentiveness. Although Ame had paused, Andagi made no attempt to comment, sensing there was more yet to come.

"Well, it turned out that a month later, she found out she was pregnant. And she killed herself. When he told me that, he started bawling and kept saying he didn't know what else to do, over and over. It was pathetic, but at the same time, I felt sorry for him, so I promised him I wouldn't tell anyone and got him to bed. I guess I didn't know what else to do, either. The next day, he seemed to have forgotten all about it and I never brought it up.

"Even now, I worry about this getting out and tarnishing his legacy. He helped me a lot and I admired him. Hell, half the country did. He really was a great champion. He just wasn't much of a man."

Ame didn't feel any lighter for having confessed; the old guilt had been stirred, fresh as it had been all those years ago, as if some phantom voice was whispering, y_ou should have told. Even if no one believed you, it was the right thing to do._

Ame sighed and patted Andagi on the back. They weren't the best of friends, but if anyone could keep a secret, it was Andagi. "Let's hurry," he said. "We've got an early train tomorrow."

***

He was high up, surrounded by white. At first he couldn't remember where he was or how he'd gotten there, then later, he still couldn't. It was some hushed place, twilit and static, where neither man nor nature produced sounds to hear. Even more disconcerting, there was no smell. He should at least have been able to scent the mist surrounding him, but there was nothing. There were rocks in the soil beneath his feet, however, and as he walked he found dark tree trunks beaded with moisture, and thickets of sickly-looking bamboo.

And then Okarai was there, not thin and wasted as he'd been on his deathbed, but looking as he had in his prime: a jovial panda so built that one could make out the definition of his arm muscles under all the fur and fat. He sported a grand white belly that looked plush and pillow-soft, but was hard as stone. Ame remembered the way that body had felt in their matches. Wrestling Okarai had been like trying to pull up an oak by the roots.

"Okarai-zeki," Ame said, "am I...dead?"

Okarai tossed his head back and laughed. "Why on earth would you think that?"

"Well, these clouds, for starters."

"It's because we're in the mountains, idiot. I was born here! Or at least, somewhere around here. I've been looking for my village for a long time, it seems. I'll hear voices and laughter, but can never quite...you don't suppose they keep moving it, do you?"

"You died, senpai. You drank until your liver gave out. I was there at your funeral."

He laughed again and shook his head. "I'm pretty sure I would remember that! If I died, then why haven't I reincarnated? Tell me that, smart guy."

Ame thought for a moment. "What you did to that girl, Mei-Rin..."

Only then did Okarai's smile fade. He stared off into the mist, pensive, ears flat as those of a puppy suffering a reprimand. "That was a terrible business. I'm going to apologize when I get home. I'll apologize and make things right. She'll forgive me, don't you think? It was just a momentary lapse of judgment. She must've moved on by now."

"She may have," Ame said, "but I don't think you will."

"You may be onto something," Okarai conceded. "I've had a lot of time to think. I have this sense of continuity. Everything we do, every word, every interaction, leaves a mark on the world around us, like ripples spreading out over the surface of a pond, even if we don't perceive it. In a sense, our actions are eternal and boundless. Looking at it that way... Gods, I would give up everything I accomplished if it would undo that night!"

Just then, Okarai's ears perked and he cocked his head, hand raised to indicate that Ame should keep quiet.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered. "That laughter, do you hear it?"

Ame shook his head. Strain though he might, he couldn't hear anything. Then Okarai bolted into the mist without warning, vanishing in a flash.

"Mei-Rin!" he cried, impossibly distant already. "Mei-Rin, I'm coming!" Then he was gone.

There was a cicada buzzing in Ame's ear, only it wasn't really a cicada, it was the alarm clock. He swatted it and the sound stopped. Unsettled by his dream, he elected not to sleep anymore. He climbed out of bed, his spine crackling like wood in a fire as he got to his feet and walked over to the window, pulling the curtain back.

The sky was only just starting to lighten in the east, a haze of blue and grey on the horizon. The hotel was an ancient structure, one of the tallest buildings in the city. Fukuoka had been an industrial center long ago, but times had changed, and the colossal factory complexes had given way to paddies and farmhouses, though pieces of superstructure too massive to be cleared yet remained, dotting the landscape like the monoliths of some forsaken henge.

It was strange to think that even though he had lived and worked with Okarai for years, even after learning his secret and tending his illness on his deathbed, that he had never stopped idolizing him. In Ame's mind, Okarai had been larger than life, something more than mere flesh and blood, so dominant in the ring that people sometimes whispered he was the god of sumo reborn. But none of that was true, never had been true. He'd just been a larger-than-average panda with a knack for sumo. That was all.

Ame stood there, unmoving, as the night rolled over into dawn, reflecting on that great, flawed man who had been his friend and teacher, always quick to smile and laugh, but in the end unable to cope with the enormity of his hidden wrongdoing.

He also wondered what in the hell he was doing with his life. He spent so much time training and on the road, boozing to keep his weight up, eating painkillers to make it through one more tournament, wrecking his body in the process. It wasn't that long ago his youngest had been in diapers, so why was she in college all of a sudden? His wife was lonely too, always begging for another cub.

At that moment he decided that this would be his final tournament, win or lose.

***

It was day fifteen of the November tournament in Fukuoka, year nine of his imperial majesty's reign. To his surprise, a reporter from a popular newspaper (they were still called that, despite long having converted to an electronic medium) had come to interview Ame about his bid to become komusubi_before his retirement. Numerous sumo blogs had picked up the story, and while people were still more interested in the doings of the _yokozuna, it had generated no small amount of buzz among the fans, especially for a maegashira-ranked wrestler. There were even a handful of enthusiasts who had come to the arena with signs and banners to show their support with slogans like, "Do your best, Kuroyama!" and, "You can do it!" Even his wife, who detested traveling, had made the trip to cheer him on, and his eldest daughter had taken to skipping her evening classes in the second half of the tournament to watch the broadcasts live.

His performance thus far had not been sterling, but he had wrestled hard and racked up all the wins he could. Day fourteen had seen him pitted against a yokozuna, and after a hard-fought match lasting more than three minutes, he'd claimed his seventh kinboshi, the most of any rikishi in the history of his stable. The problem was that he'd taken his share of losses, too; the dawn of day fifteen saw his record standing at seven wins, seven losses. It was no shock to anyone that they'd chosen the new _komusubi,_Ichikin, the raccoon, for his opponent in his final match.

Komusubi_was generally considered the most difficult rank to hold. Because of the way matches were arranged, a _komusubi_would face off against the uppermost tier during the first week, often losing most, if not all of these match-ups. The second week would pit him against easier opponents, but by this point, the wrestler was usually so demoralized that he lost many of these matches as well. Ichikin, though, had held on after weathering the onslaught of _yokozuna_and _ozeki in the first week, winning six matches in a row on the second, to the effect that he too stood at seven wins, seven losses on day fifteen. The Sumo Association was all too eager publicize the bout, and the media was happy to comply.

When the yobidashi chanted Ame's ring name, summoning him to the dohyo, he expected to be nervous, but was strangely calm. He wanted to win, of course, but that was only because winning was what a rikishi was meant to do. So long as he could say that he'd done his best, he no longer cared about the numerical details of his record, and that realization had freed him of anxiety. It was almost enough to make him laugh. As he made his way down the aisle, it occurred to him that he was failing to suppress a stupid grin, the knowledge of which made him grin all the harder. The referee, a wizened Iriomote cat, gave him an odd look as he mounted the dohyo and began the preparatory rituals. The guy probably thought he was high.

As for Ichikin, he was one of the few in the division who didn't have a short or docked tail, but chose to leave his hanging from his mawashi, black and white and impeccably groomed, a fact he claimed made him more popular with the female fans. His coloration was typical for his phenotype, as was his short stature, the latter of which he attempted to compensate for with impressive girth; he was almost as wide as he was tall. He was also considered to possess one of the best left-hand-outside grips in the division and this, combined with his talent and low center of gravity, made him a force to be reckoned with. He was expected to go far, but would have to win here today if he wanted to keep his rank.

Rituals done, the two crouched, facing each other, and the clamor of the crowd around them faded into nothingness, their entire world condensed into that four-and-a-half meter ring. Ichikin put down his right fist and Ame did the same. Then their lefts touched the clay and they charged, slamming into each other like a pair of dueling rams. Ichikin went for Ame's mawashi, but Ame had been expecting that and executed an over-arm throw. In a result mirroring his match with Okarai all those years before, Ichikin twisted around enough to take Ame down with him and they hit the ground at almost the exact same time. Even with the slow-motion replay, it was hard to say who had won.

***

He was high up, surrounded by white. At first, he couldn't remember where he was or how he'd gotten there, but then it came to him. He was reclining on a lawn chair at his new house in the mountains. Below was his hometown, where the streetlamps were flickering to life in the twilight. It wasn't mist obscuring his vision this time, but sheets and cloth diapers hung out to dry, waving gently in the breeze. He must have fallen asleep.

To his right, the light from the kitchen cast a yellow rectangle onto the grass. The notes of an aimless song drifted over it all: his wife singing to the cub as she chopped vegetables for supper. Tomorrow, someone from the publishing company was coming over to discuss the contract on his book deal, but that was of no importance so long as the story was told. In any event, he could worry about that in the morning. Right now he was hungry.

He stretched, every bone is his back giving an audible pop, then stood up. People swore all over the internet that acupuncture was a bogus treatment, but he'd be damned if it didn't make his ankles feel better. He'd been off of painkillers for over a year and only drank now on holidays. The doctors assured him that his health was good. Truth be told, he felt better than he had since his teens.

At the door, he stopped and gazed at the western sky as night swallowed the last traces of day's radiance. A cold wind blew down from the summit and he shivered. A high wail sounded from the window.

"Ame-san," his wife called, "my hands are full. Can you come get Mei-Rin?"

"Coming..."

He opened the door and went inside.