The Night of the Severed Chords
By: John Tuttle
Tags: Romance, Literature, Fiction, Short Story, Thriller

Light footfalls proceeded in rhythmic unison along the corridor. The carpeted floor displayed multi-colored, abstract, symmetrical patterns. The pair of feet traveling upon it made their way to a shut door. Pausing only a moment, the feet shuffled in as the door was flung open in silence. It closed behind them.

The feet belonged to a slender Japanese woman. The inner room was dark, but filled with an exciting presence of outstanding sound. It was a gleeful atmosphere. The place felt alive with it. A play was being put on. Cigar smoke hung on the air, and the entire mini-theatre was wholly unoccupied but for the exception of a single individual. The attentive viewer lay seated, his head and torso but a seamless silhouette against a contrasting background. On the stage, three marionettes were engaged in acting out a scene.

The skinny form of the young lady darted from the back of the room and over to the man who was watching the tale unfold. The smoke insulted her sinuses as she found the pastime rather distasteful, but she did not permit her disgust to manifest itself either on her face or in her mood. Hatsuyo always followed the customary protocols for respect while in service, and she had a personal admiration for her master. But this matter was of the utmost significance. In none of her years as a private servant had she encountered anything quite like it. She was now a humble messenger, but she always offered her best self to him in this simple task assigned to her.

“Sumimasen kyō. Excuse me, sir,” Hatsuyo whispered to him in the most soothing tone imaginable, “This note was slipped under the door of your office. I found it while cleaning.” Bowing, she placed a small square of paper in his palm and stepped back.

She seemed nervous. Her swaying posture, her anguished facial expression — the man had never seen her like this before. The cigar was extinguished. He read the message which had come to him on such peculiar terms. The notes of silken string instruments and the soft dialogue of the rival puppet characters supplied an appealing yet distracting ambience. The scribblings took merely a few seconds to digest and swallow. His eyes looked up and landed on the woman who had presented this to him. He had no doubts as to her loyalty. Though her voice had soothed him, the message she carried sent a convulsion down his frame, his neck muscles tightening, goose flesh sprouting and spreading over the exposed skin of his arms.

The note had been written in perfect English and read as follows:

Gen. Guftason, Since I see myself as a person of fair play and wish to maintain my code of ethics, I must warn you that your life is in jeopardy. You are the target of an assassination to which I confess to be the coordinator. Your very breaths are numbered. I advise you not to stick your neck out for anyone. Otherwise, your neck’s chords and vertebrae shall be sliced off of your body. Remember, the General is always a most desirable target.

No signature or farewell statement. The man didn’t expect any. He got the feeling the author of this death threat was a rather pompous, egotistical person. He envisioned this fellow to be a warped character who experienced some sick elation from his sadistic game. The General could see this sort of personality flow out of the context of the foreboding note. The writer had used the term “fair play,” for instance. The whole letter exuded an unmasked air of condescension and high self-esteem. Amid his sensory analysis and imaginary mental drawing, the message itself began to sink in.

The alarming, abject situation put a weight on the man, but the retired General’s physical stance barely altered. His shoulders were motionless, no tenser than usual. His countenance, however, did experience a detectable change. Hatsuyo watched as the smile broke, and the entertained eye widened in distress, brow cocked and shifted upward. Presently, there came a noise like the twang of strings snapping followed by a fleeting blur of scarlet. Something fell on the stage. The blur had just shot past the General. It landed in the wall beyond. A dull thud echoed in the theatre, and one of the woman puppeteers shrieked.

General Guftason’s head went spinning, first to the wall then to the stage where the unidentified flying object had come from. He discovered a curved metal blade embedded in the wall. Yanking it from its self-made notch, he looked the weapon over. It had been disguised as an unfolded hand fan of the traditional Oriental make. He examined it closely.

This assassination coordinator — and whoever his inside man is — seem to have good taste, the middle-aged General thought to himself, no matter how insane they may be.

The bladed fan was a rather ornate piece of workmanship. The paper was decorated with hand-painted designs. There, on a solid royal red background, was a detailed depiction of a battle sequence. It was of an archaic war fought with antiquated weapons. This was a war which above all else had functioned on muscle and metal. The key figures in the micro-painting were the leaders of two opposing armies locked in a duel, each engaging his opponent with a Guntō, a type of curved saber. The highlight of the picture was the decapitation of the one warmonger on the right by the one on the left. Guftason understood the symbolism immediately.

For all extensive and militaristic purposes, these two great soldiers represented two generals clashing against each other. Evidently, he was the one with the head rolling and the bloody fountain spouting from the neck where the head had been severed. A crude, mellow-dramatic method of bringing one’s point across. It was meant to instill a sense of anxiety and dread.

And it has struck its target, Guftason thought again.

Next, he made his way to the stage. Everyone watched on now in silence. What had the big commotion been for? Looking down, he saw the puppeteer who had screamed holding one of the glorified dolls in her arms. The body of the marionette had been sewn together into a single form with no loose attachments. Now, in mid-performance, the puppet had violently had its head sliced off, along with a number of the wires used to manipulate the thing’s movements. The bladed fan had swooped out from somewhere behind the platform. None of the puppet masters knew how it could have happened. No one saw anything. Quite convenient for an assassin.

Guftason stared at the broken puppet, its head still laying on the wooden floor. Ironically, this was no ordinary character. It had represented the historical personage of Sai, a revered military leader of ancient Japan hailed as one of the Five Kings of Wa, and bearer of the title “General Who Maintains Peace.” This play that had been written within the past few years had included him as a character. Of course, it did not go down quite like this in the script.