Still chanting, Kitano pushed a strange apparatus on wheels toward Hirata. It was a bellows connected by a metal tube to the neck of a large ceramic jar. Kitano fetched the pot from the hearth. His scarred face was covered with raw, stitched-up gashes from his fight with Deguchi. He poured the pot’s contents into the jar, corked it, and inserted another, thinner tube through the cork. Tahara connected the end of the thin tube to a leather mask, which he pressed over Hirata’s nose and mouth. Kitano pumped the bellows. Hirata moaned as steam laced with sweet chemicals invaded his lungs.
“Why…?” The mask muffled his voice. The fog of sleep thickened.
“Why are we healing you instead of letting you die?” Tahara said, his hostile voice echoing in the cave. “Because General Otani has further use for you.”
With his last waking thought Hirata wished he were dead. That was better than being saved in order that he could continue his treasonous collaboration with Tahara, Kitano, and the ghost. Worse trouble was coming. But a glint of hope eased his anguish, illuminated the noxious black sleep that overtook Hirata’s consciousness.
As long as he was alive, he had a chance to destroy his enemies, make amends to his family and Sano, and restore his honor.
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