Lady Sato's Curse

 Lady Sato’s Curse.  A short story by Stevie T. 

It was a lovely Sunday.  Not too hot, not too cold.  Just right, in fact, for wandering around the stalls, laden with antiques, on Portobello Road Market in London.

In good weather, this is where you would always find Michael Clayborne, and today was no exception. He'd been perusing half a dozen stalls already and was slowly making his way back to Ladbroke Grove tube station.  

Hello, I haven’t seen this stall before. A folding table wedged between two regular stalls. It looked very much like it had been set up hastily. Michael rubbed his chin and took off his sunglasses. A cursory look told him what he was already expecting.  Mostly tat, mismatched china, dirty brass objects, a bit of jade, some bronze. But you never know.

A small carved jade tiger caught his eye and Michael moved closer for a better look. An elderly man, in worn blue trousers, an oversized grey cardigan and a green checked shirt, buttoned at the neck, was watching him warily from the other side of the stall. 

Michael picked up the piece of jade and turned in his hand. It wasn't a particularly fine example and Michael knew he'd seen better. He looked on the base, there were no marks, and there was no price tag to be seen. Michael put it back and looked up. The stall holder was wiping his forehead with grubby handkerchief and still looking at him. But the wariness had been replaced with a warm smile.

“Hello!” Said Michael cheerfully.  “Haven't seen you here before.”

“Don't get around here very often.” The old chap pointed at the jade tiger. "You have a good eye."

Ah! Flattery, and do I detect a West Country accent?

“Have you got anything interesting?” Michael enquired.

“Well that depends on what you're looking for,” the old man was scratching his bald head and winked.

Michael had been a little caught out by the wink and was surprised he felt himself blush. "I'm not really sure. But I'll know it when I see it." He attempted a reciprocal wink, and failed miserably, tilting his head as he delivered it, giving what could only be described as a piratical 'Arrrrr! Jim lad' type one. He blushed again, and looked at the old man who seem bemused and bewildered.

The stall holder cleared his throat.

“Now, I imagine a discerning gent such as yourself would like something unique. Arcane maybe?”

“Well that sounds right up my street,” Michael said cheerfully, thankful things had moved on. He realised he was actually enjoying this.

“I thought it might be.” The stall holder gave a little chuckle and looked Michael up and down.

“Well?” Said Michael.

“Now hold your horses sir. I don't keep the really good stuff on display.  I like to get a measure of my customers first.”

He bent down and disappeared from sight.  Michael heard a clomp and 'bugger' and guessed the old chap had hit his head on the underneath of the stall. A short while later, he re-emerged and Michael could see a scraped patch of skin that was starting to redden on the top of his scalp. He was holding an oblong box with gold lettering on the top. All in all it was about twelve inches long and three inches square. Michael could see a gold hinge, running along the length of the box, and the box itself was covered in luxurious blue velvet. The old man made space on the stall top and set it down.  Michael carefully looked at the gold characters embossed into the velvet. Chinese, Japanese? He wasn’t sure.

The old man put a hand up to cover his mouth and cleared his throat.  Then gestured theatrically at the box.

“This once belonged to a very famous Japanese samurai warlord, called Takeda Shingen, or the “Tiger of Kai” as he was more commonly known.  He lived in the sixteenth century.  When it came to warfare he was a legendary tactical genius."

His stopped talking and looked at Michael as if he was checking Michael was paying attention, then carried on.

"He also had many concubines, but Lady Sato was the number one, and fiercely jealous of her rivals.  One night, she slipped past the guards and let herself into his palatial tent.  It was dark, but the flickering torchlight was enough to show Takeda and Lady Takahashi. They were both naked on a finely woven rug. Takeda was on all fours. Sato could clearly make out the outline of his swollen manhood.” 

The old man stopped talking again. He looked a little embarrassed and reached into his pocket. He produced his handkerchief and wiped his brow. He kept it in his hand and continued.

“Takahashi, who was slightly behind him and to his left, was speaking softly to him as she pushed a highly polished wooden object rhythmically in and out of his anus.  Lady Sato was consumed with a mixture of jealousy, hatred and a little disgust. She was about to flee when she heard Takahashi ask, “And what of our sons, my Lord?”  Sato’s ears pricked up at this and she cautiously inched a little closer. Takeda, his body slick with sweat and breathless with passion, turned his head toward Takahashi and gasped, “They will be my sole heirs and rule after my death.”  

“Well Sato was enraged by this because her sons were the rightful heirs. Takeda had sworn on his life that they would inherit everything. Sato fled to plot her revenge.  Over the next few months she visited the finest craftsmen in Japan and had an object of great beauty carved from the finest ivory.  Finally, she visited the Shugendō Monks, and paying them handsomely, got them to place a curse on the object that would bring bad luck to whoever owned it.  Finally, she had a box made to hold it and sent it anonymously, as a gift from a great admirer, to Takeda. He was thoroughly delighted.  A few months later Takeda was at the Siege of Noda Castle. But before the campaign was over, Takeda was dead. He died alone in his quarters choking on a chicken bone.  When Lady Sato got news of this, she sent messengers to her sons who slaughtered all the other possible contenders to Takeda's estates and titles. Lady Takahashi and all the other concubines were taken to a stone quarry and beheaded.  In this original box, is that cursed gift.”

Michael laughed. “Well that's a bloody good yarn.  I don't believe a word of it.  I suppose your spiel is to push the price up?”

“Not at all,” said the old man, without any rancour in his voice.  “I only want what I paid for it, plus a small premium.”

“How much?” Asked Michael, a little intrigued. 

“£500 plus a 10% premium.”

So £550 then. “It could be a load of old rubbish,” Michael looked at the old boy to see if he could see any reaction.

The old man stared back at him blankly and said, “Well, sir won't know unless he looks. Will he?”

“Very well, show me.’ said Michael.

Very slowly the old man lifted the box off the stall and raised it to about chest height, he did this reverentially and had the fervour of a true believer in his eyes, they shone. He gripped the top half in the centre and pressed the top with his forefinger. Then turning the box ninety degrees, pressed again on the end of the box. Michael heard a soft click. Hmm, a concealed lock. Then he licked his lips and very gently, opened the box. Michael felt the hairs on the back of his neck go up.  The object was nestled in a bed of midnight blue coloured silk and took up almost the entire length of the box.

Michael let out a roar of laughter. Tears rolled down his cheeks.  “It's a fucking dildo, a white plastic, ten inch dildo. Well done old man. You really had me going there.”

The stall holder's expression didn't change. He looked at Michael a little abashed and said, “It isn't plastic, sir.”

“This object was carved from a single piece of the finest ivory by the master craftsmen of the Za guilds. Unfortunately, no name can be attributed to the genius who carved this, but markings on the blunt end date it to the sixteenth century. That can be verified by any reputable dealer of Japanese antiquities.”

“It's still a dick.”  Chortled Michael.

“Well,” said the old man, “I would catalogue it as a beautifully carved piece of sixteenth century ivory, post Edo period in the shape of an erect penis.”

“An old dildo,” chuckled Michael.

“Very well, if you must, a dildo.”

“But before you scoff further, would you like to examine it more closely?”  He held out his arms towards Michael. 

Michael was hesitant, but reached into the box and removed the dildo.  It was heavier than he had expected, and cool to the touch.  He turned it around in his hand and could see that, indeed it was, beautifully carved.  Every vein stood out in relief and when you looked at the unsheathed head, you could make out the change in skin texture.  Michael hated to admit it, but it was exquisite.

‘Well?’ said the old man. Michael put the dildo back in the box and the stall holder closed the lid, and placed it back down on the stall.

“I may have been a little hasty. But you caught me off guard.” Michael looked at his watch. He had been standing here for thirty minutes and no- one else had visited the stall. Very odd.

“This story and the curse, it's all made up of course?”

“Not at all sir,” said the old man. 

“May I ask you your name?” said Michael.

“Of course. Henry, sir. Henry Grimes.”

“Well Henry, how did you come by this story?"

Henry cleared his throat again, and Michael sensed it was going to be a long afternoon.

 

“Well sir, this story has been passed down through the centuries by the descendants of Lady Sato.  There are ancient scrolls all over Japan, and they all tell the same tale.  My late father was a renowned dealer of sixteenth to nineteenth century Japanese documents, and he told me this story. From a child, I was completely bewitched. I wanted to find this fabled object and own it.  Of course I didn't originally know what the object was." At this, he wiped his face again and put the handkerchief back in his pocket.

"Late last year I was approached by an antique dealer friend of mine who said she had received news that the object I sought was in the hands of a very elderly lady who lived in New York.  So I went there, negotiated the price and she sold it to me. She was very happy to be rid of it.”

“As simple as that,” said Michael. 

“Well not quite,” replied Henry. 

Henry swayed slightly and put a hand out to steady himself on the stall's top. He looked up, a little embarrassed, but returned to his story.

“First of all I wanted to make sure it was the real object. After all, it had disappeared sometime in the nineteenth century. There had been sightings of it quite regularly until 1850 and then nothing. Thankfully the seller in New York had provenance verifying where it had been, up to the present day."

Henry paused again, bent down and came up with a Tesco carrier bag. He rummaged inside it and pulled out a bottle of still water. He unscrewed the top and lifted it to his lips. Michael noticed Henry's hand was trembling, and that a little water had dribbled down Henry's stubble heavy chin. It was at this point Michael realised how tired the old man looked. His face was deathly pale and his eyes were red and puffy. Then Henry reached into his pocket and took out a small ornate pill box. He flipped open the lid and removed a tiny white pill, which he popped under his tongue. Ah! A dodgy ticker.

"Now where was I?" Henry thought for a second, "Oh yes, from 1850 until 1912 it was kept in a store room of a Helsinki museum. They needed capital to buy a Munch sketch, and along with several other lots, sold it to the Russian Imperial Court where it became the property of Czar Nicholas II. Rumour has it that the Empress Alexandra was very taken by it and it was put to good use when Rasputin visited her." Henry winked again. "As history tells, Nicholas II and his entire family were killed in 1918 during the Russian revolution. The secret police and soldiers who killed the Imperial Family were led by a man called Yakov Yurovsky.  He later found the object amongst their belongings. He stole it and later sold it to Leon Trotsky, I have the bill of sale.  Trotsky fell foul of Stalin and fled Russia. He was killed in Mexico City by Ramón Mercader, a Stalinist agent."

Henry paused to take another sip from the water bottle.

"Trotsky’s estate was then sold at auction in America and the object was bought by Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. They owned it until it was sold in 1954 to the screenwriter William Bast. He bought it as a gift, which he gave to his sometime lover, the actor James Dean, who died tragically young in a car crash whilst on his way to a race meeting. That was in 1955, and shortly after, his estate was also put up for auction."

Henry paused to scratch his head and winced when his fingernails caught the injury from his ill adventure under the stall. Michael noticed Henry was looking perkier. Some colour had returned to his cheeks. The pill must be working.

"From there it was owned by various individuals and its passing from one to the other has been fully documented. It next surfaced at the auction of actor Rock Hudson’s estate in 1986. You may recall that Hudson died from AIDS in 1985. Now you may think his demise was from natural causes, especially given his lifestyle, but I prefer to think the curse had a hand in it."

Henry halted again and looked up at Michael for a nod of assent. Not getting one, he coughed and continued.

"The new owner, Oscar Greggs, was an ardent movie memorabilia collector in England, he died in 1990, attending the preview of an upcoming auction. The T-Rex head used in the first Jurassic Park movie broke free of the steel cables suspending it from the roof. Oscar, in his bid to get out of the way, tripped over a working model of K-9, the robot dog from Doctor Who. As he fell, the dinosaur head crashed to the floor and crushed his legs. It also, flattened K-9 before toppling onto it's side and killing the auctioneer's white poodle that had been tied to a folding chair leg. Oscar died a few hours later in hospital from complications due to his injuries. Oscar's collection went to his son, Rocky, who, six months later, tragically died in a family house fire. He succumbed to smoke inhalation whilst trying to rescue his pet parrot, which also perished."

"Am I going to fast?" Henry had stopped again.

Not fast enough! "No," Michael said. He smiled at the old man. "Please, continue"

"Not much more," Henry said cheerfully.

"It was then sold by Christies in London and bought by the singer Amy Winehouse."

"Did you like her? I did. She reminded me very much of Sarah Vaughan."

"Anyway, upon her death it was bequeathed to one of her friends, who took it to America and sold it to a Winehouse fan. She died in mysterious circumstances near Area 51 in Nevada from radiation sickness. She spent her final hours in a delirious state babbling on about little men in silver suits. And so it became the property of her grandmother, the lady I bought it from.”

“Fuck me” said Michael, “That's a hell of a story.” “So tell me Henry, why do you want to sell it so cheaply?”

“Since I bought it sir, I've had nothing but bad luck.  My wife has, very recently, been diagnosed with dementia having never shown any signs of the disease. It seemed to grip her a week after I bought the item. My twelve year old cat was poisoned and died in agony, writhing on the kitchen floor. I had a fire at the warehouse I own and lost an awful lot of stock. I was scammed online and lost £5,000. And I've developed angina. All this in the last six months. So you can see, I'd like to be rid of it before it kills me.”

“I don't believe in curses,” Michael said curtly. “Although very sad, everything you've told me about the object really are accidents or the trials of life we all have to negotiate.” 

“And speaking of negotiating, I'll offer you £450 for it.”

“The price is £550, sir.” 

“£450 if you want to sell it as badly as you say you do. Put the mark-down to, I don't know.....the 'curse'?”

Looking resigned, Henry nodded his head and produced a portable card reader. He typed in £450 and Michael inserted his credit card, typed in his PIN, waited for it to be accepted and then popped the card back in his wallet. 

Reaching beneath the stall, Henry pulled out a small white carrier bag that had, 'Henry Grimes, Quality Antiques' printed on it in fancy copperplate lettering.  

Henry put the box in the carrier bag. Then he reached down and picked up a very battered, old attaché case. He opened it and took out a sheaf of rolled up papers tied with some string, and put those in the bag too.

"What are they?" Enquired Michael.

"The documents, sir. Everything you need to corroborate all I've told you."

Henry handed the bag over.

Michael took it and said, “Good doing business with you Henry.”  But before Henry could answer, Michael had turned away and was heading in the direction of Ladbroke Grove tube. 

The tube station was unusually busy for a Sunday. Michael made his way through the ticket hall and headed to the platform. He looked up at the arrivals board and saw his train was one minute out. He worked his way through the throng, apologising to a man whose foot he trod on, and gently shoved a teenage boy out of the way in order to get to the front. He heard the announcement that the train was approaching and to stand behind the line.  He could sense jostling behind him, but that wasn't unusual. He smiled to himself, thinking of the bargain he'd just bought and decided to do a bit more research before selling it on. He glanced down at the carrier bag it was in, and swapped hands, moving it from left to right. As he was doing this, he looked down the tunnel and saw the two headlights of the train hurtling down the track. Suddenly he was viciously shoved forward from behind. He scrambled to stop his momentum. He managed to grab the sleeve of a guy next to him, but it was snatched away. He lost his footing and felt himself falling off the platform into the path of the oncoming train. Twisting as he fell he saw the carrier bag. It had spun out of his grip and was arcing through the air.  Instantaneously he thought of the curse. “FUCK!” he screamed. The tube train hit him before he fell onto the rails, and he smelt the stench of his bowels emptying, before slipping under the carriage, to be chopped and mangled as the train rolled over him.

Oblivion. 

The train came to a halt.  People who had seen what just happen were screaming. Up in the control room, on CCTV, a supervisor watched the panic set in, and like a grazing herd of buffaloes startled by a gunshot, people started to haphazardly evacuate the platform, going in all directions and banging into bewildered passengers trying to get off the train. A few people who were standing close to the incident were pointing and trying to look under the train, in the vain hope whoever had fallen was still alive. Two men were hunch over being sick. But the supervisor's eyes kept being drawn back to an old man in a cardigan standing completely still, like he was in the eye of a storm.  The old boy turned his head and looked directly at the camera. The supervisor was sure he could see a smile on the old fella's face. He bent down and picked up a small white carrier bag that had been kicked towards him in the melée. He straighten up and then followed everyone else to the exit. The supervisor following the camera feeds, kept him in sight as he made his way to the ticket hall, through the opened barrier gates and finally out through the main doors, turning in the direction of Portobello Road. 

END

Authors notes.

Takeda Shingen was a real 16th century samurai warlord. He didn’t die from choking.

It is known how the Russian Imperial Family died in 1918 and Yurovsky was the leader of the execution squad.

Trotsky was assassinated in 1940 by a modified ice axe in Mexico City by Mercader.

The celebrities mentioned existed and the circumstances of their deaths have been well reported in the media.

William Bast was, as far as we know, James Dean's best friend, and although rumours had persisted about Dean's bisexuality, it wasn't until Bast's 2006 autobiography that he admitted to homosexual liaisons with the star.

Everything else is fiction, except for the curse and the dildo. Great Uncle Henry owns the dildo. He’s trying to find a buyer.