I was told I could only reach him by helicopter, in his snow-filled fortress in the mountains of Nagano, Asama-Yousai. He has made a converted monastery his home, with no fancy cars, no pretty girls, barely a Bloomberg terminal. What the house does have in spades are bookshelves; Hajime, who stands at two metres, sixty-five years, and twenty stone, told me he reads at least one book a day.
“Too many are seen and stupid,” he explained after his morning meditation. “I prefer to be wise, and invisible.”
Yet those in the field would hardly characterise Hajime as such. I was nervous to speak to the world’s ‘Earphone King.’ Infamous for his temper, Hajime has become a legend on the trading floor for the abuse he levels at employees, so much so that Tokyo police are actively investigating his role in several suicides. But the man I met was surprisingly calm, quiet, offering to make me tea and speaking only after much thought.
A radio salesman by trade, Hajime made his first billion by investing the entirety of his wealth into one company, Sony, whose founder Akio Morita had just started developing the ‘Walkman.’ At the time, he told a bewildered press that he thought Mr. Morita’s invention would “change forever the way humans understand music.” As the head of Asia’s largest venture capitalist firm, he has become famous for losing billions in hundreds of risky start-ups, before recouping and exceeding his losses with a few highly profitable ‘unicorns.’ These include Singapore’s leading e-commerce brand, Sea Group, the Indian IT giant Infosys, and, most recently, the Chinese ‘everything site,’ Alibaba.
This high-risk trading strategy isn’t his only eccentric behaviour. When I mentioned the 1997 crisis, I was surprised by Mr. Hajime’s laughter. He confirmed the tabloid stories that, unlike every other harried investor, he refused to return to the markets. In fact, the collapse of dozens of his investments left him feeling relieved.
“Let the markets come. Let them sweep through like a divine wind. Crush the weak with the pressure of a million stones, and the real champions - my champions - will still stand tall. They will come out as diamonds. My fund does not exist for the petty profits of the riskless. It exists to change the world.”
Mr. Hajime alleged that his Sony investment was made only after a conversation with Mr. Morita; that he had not, in fact, even seen the product his money would be developing.
“In all times, our world has been moved by great men. Once, they wore crowns; now, they wear suits. But no matter their size, no matter their start, they will conquer. Their minds cannot be quenched, and will drown all lesser wills. Such was Mr. Morita. He wanted the world to always know music. And so the world knew.”
I asked Mr. Hajime where these men of ambition are found. When he was unable to give an answer, I posited that, if such a man emerged in my own native Britain, would Mr. Hajime break his own personal code against investing in the West?
“They would move the world regardless,” Mr. Hajime replied. “I wouldn’t need to.”
Excerpt from ‘In the Hall of the Earphone King: My Time with Japan’s Most Mysterious Venture Capitalist,’ by Forbes contributor Jeremy Lyson, March 24th, 2001.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
1647
Cornwall
He was young. The creases still unseen on his face, and the scars yet to grow on his flesh. His horse bobs along the dirt path, its hooves tearing through the grass, it’s gilded armour glowing in the sunlight. His hand lingers by his sword as he gazes at the village that shouldn’t be. There might be a few dozen houses, built from the reeds and stones and bricks made of mud. He can smell the pestilence that’s rolled through here, hear it in the coughs and sobs caught by the wind. Stalks of wheat and corn whistle as he rides.
Like in every village now, he sees few men. In their place, women and children huddle by their doors, or hide behind the walls. They watch him and his horse and the black banner that sweeps from his side. He knows that he’s the first noble many of them have ever seen, and he knows he was right to not bring a guard.
These people can’t kill him.
He can tell from their hungry, desperate eyes.
He dismounts in the village centre, the only spot of the hamley that’s clean. An old man sits on a tree stump to greet him, haggard, hunchbacked, huddling over his cane. He doesn’t look up to see his guest, his voice rough as gravel. “What lord are you?”
“Am I spotted so easily?” The noble replies.
He lifts his brows. It’s clear the old man is blind.
“You nobles, clink and chatter. I heard your horse from a mile past. Now, again, which lord are you?”
“Gawen Rowe.” He hesitates, before adding. “An du pennsevik."
That brings out a laugh. “So you know my father's tongue. Good. But why 'Black Prince?"
“When my mother gave us sweets from the market, I always handed mine to the servants. I liked to watch them, play with them, enough so to become unseemly. People complained, but my father, he said, ‘a flock has its black sheep, and our family has its black prince.’”
“Why'd you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Give up sweets?"
“They always taste better the first time. I had already tried them all."
Silence. The old man looks up with those grey, lifeless. “Are you going to kill me today, Gawen Rowe?”
“I don’t know.”
“The other nobles want you to.”
“They do. But, as I just said…” the Black Prince shrugs. “... I’m not great at fitting in.”
He purses his lip, looking about the village. “Three months ago, your people tore down the enclosure marks, refused Lord Ashton’s service, and squatted here citing some... unknown ancestral right. We’ve sent seneschals, bishops, bailiffs to correct your error. I’m told you instructed your fellow villagers to throw rocks."
He only gets laughter in reply to that. The Black Prince turns serious. "Why?"
“The land here’s better.”
“But it’s owned by Lord-”
Another laugh. “It’s not his land, boy. He doesn’t work it. He isn’t here.”
“But he owns it all the same. By divine right-”
“Divine right!?” The old man scowls. “Which right, boy? Where in the Bible does it say I can’t live here? Where!? Where!? You’re the one who can read! Tell me the verse!”
Silence. The Black Prince frowns.
“Divine right, peh,” the old man spits. “Go join back with the King, if you want to yap on about ‘divine right’!”
“I don’t think you fully understand your situation.”
“Mmm?”
“I came here because no one else would. Because I wanted to believe that you people could see reason, that we wouldn’t need to fight. That an old man and his gaggle of women and children would never so flagrantly break our laws! And yet here you are, admitting to it. Taunting me with it!"
“Is going hungry a crime?”
The Black Prince gives him a look. “No.”
“Is growing food a crime?”
“No. But when you live on a lord’s land, and don’t give him due service-”
“DUE SERVICE!?” The Black Prince steps back. The older man is climbing up the stump, waving his cane. “I was born here! I’ve always worked here! And until his men kicked us out, this spot was MY HOME.”
“If he moved the enclosure, he would have offered enfeoffment, or compensation. It’s the law.”
A final laugh. Longer than all the others. “You really don't fit in."
With difficulty, the old man walks down from the stump. The Black Prince is looking away. Considering what he's heard. It makes sense. Taxes are declining. People are dying. There's hardly any creditors for debt. Nobles need the wealth, and they need it now. But... so short-sighted. So much pain. He doesn't want to believe they'd do this.
But that doesn't make it not true.
“Perhaps you’ve been wronged.” He swallows. “Perhaps your grievances are fair. But that is not a decision for you alone to make. Regardless of what you'd like, the courts have to determine who's land-"
“No one owns the land!” The old man shouts. “Just like no one owns the sky, these words, the air you breathe. It is all of ours."
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His eyes grow wide. "That's blasphemy."
"It's not. You can write laws against that, you can raise armies and castles to stop that, but the land will always remain the same."
The old man spits, then slams his staff into the dirt. Rubbing it in, until two clear holes are dug.
“You have a choice, Gawen Rowe. Your nobles want to get rich; my village will not starve. Somebody isn’t getting what they want, and there is no King or court or Parliament left that can make it easy and tell you who. If you will listen to us, like you keep saying you want to, then listen. If you want to kill us all and be done with it, draw your sword. But I want to make one thing clear, before you start yapping again about laws and rights and all your other fancy words."
He taps the ground by the holes he dug, and bids the Black Prince to look.
“Your armies and castles make you big, but from where God can see us, there is no difference between any of us.”
He blinks his dying eyes.
“We’re all the same height.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
1866
Summertime
She looks past the fire, and sees his outline in the flames.
Gawen Rowe stands on the cliff’s edge, his eyes on the stars. His lips move, but make no sounds. His hands are folded over his heart, but that heart doesn’t beat when he sleeps. Harriet’s checked.
Blood only flows through the Black Prince’s body when the Black Prince wants it to.
They’re alone. Red and Menowin are hunting for deer - or maybe people, she realises, but they would never let her know. It’s been two weeks since Berkeley, two weeks since Rowe captured a hundred with his voice, two weeks since Red tore a human being to shreds. The events replay in her dreams, stirring her like fire, chilling her like cold. No one has mentioned it, and she's scared to even ask. The only one she’s broached the subject with was - of all people - Menowin. Perhaps it’s because he already hates her. Perhaps it’s because he clearly doesn’t care. But she made a passing remark, a tiny reveal, then watched to see his reply.
He had smiled, walked up to her, and traced out the shape of the Evil Eye on her forehead.
She knows that she should be frightened of them. Knows that they are frightening. These are monsters from a story, something other than human. And yet… in all her life, Harriet has never been less afraid.
And that courage is because of them.
She squeezes her fists. It’s just a matter of force. If she says it quickly, confidently, he’ll-
The same hesitation hits her.
What if he says no?
But then her face hardens, and Harriet stands. The fire’s warmth tickles her legs. She walks over the log seats, the packs, the pots and pans. All her focus on him. Soon her boots are scraping on sand and rock.
She’s left the gun behind her.
“Fireside."
He says it just before she can speak. The Black Prince turns and looks at her.
“Have you ever counted the stars?”
Harriet squints. The Black Prince’s skin is pale, his expression distant. He speaks like he’s not entirely there. Eyes dull.
She clutches her still-short hair. “Have you?”
Rowe smiles. “Genesis 26, verse 4: ‘And I will make thy seed to multiply as the stars in heaven, and in thy seed shall the nations of the Earth be blessed.’ You can't count the stars, Fireside, God made it so that there are too many. At best…” He draws with his finger, an invisible square in front of his face. “... you can only cut out a facet. Like shapes on a diamond.”
She watches his hand as he lifts it over Polaris. The pale moon.
“You. Me. Josiah and Menowin. Everyone else God promised to Abraham, branches in a tree as large as the sky. That is the Kingdom God promised us. And that’s why I’m afraid. Every time I count, the stars are fewer and fewer."
The catches her attention. "What?"
“Smog.” He waves his hand, as if to illustrate it. “In the factories, smoke always rises, the refuse of so many tonnes of coal. It has smothered the cities already. Filling them with ash, so that the sky cannot be seen.”
Harriet looks again at the clouds. The Milky Way, the Big Dipper. Could something so bright really just... go away?
“In a century, maybe two, the sky will grow completely dark,” Rowe adds. “What will the Kingdom look like then?"
“Rowe…” Harriet closes her eyes, breathes. “There’s… sorry, but there’s somethin’ I gotta say.”
She hesitates, her whole body trembling. She can feel those eyes on her, but can't bear to meet them. "I..."
She forces it through grit teeth.
“I know what ya are. An’ I wanna join ya.”
Harriet dares to look at his face. Clearly, this wasn't what he was expecting.
"What?"
“Ya know what.” She tries to stand tall. “Yer strong, Rowe. All y’all are, stronger than ya should be, an’ I… I wanna be strong, too.”
Silence. For a moment, there’s only wind on the branches. Rowe turns fully, facing her, and lifts his hands. “Alright, then. What am I?”
She grips the sides of her trousers. “An’...”
She swallows. Blinks many times.
“... An angel.”
Rowe's body melts. Laughter. His laughter roars over the cliffside, light and buzzing, forcing Harriet to step back. “Am I… heheh… You… heheheheheh, y-you thought I… hahahahahah!”
“Well… well yeah!” Harriet’s turned red with embarrassment. "Wh-what else would ya be?"
That makes his laughter even louder.
Rowe's hands are on his knees, his entire body bucked over. Slowly, the laughter twists, takes an edge, until it sounds more like he’s wheezing. “Sorry… sorry, I… heheheh… I-I shouldn’t be - hahahahaha!”
“I…” Harriet holds herself, watching him finally regain himself.
“I am not an angel, Fireside,” he says, taking a deep breath. “And even if I was... I wouldn't make you one."
She rears at that. "Why not!?"
“There is another world. A world the Scriptures do not speak of. It is the world of hidden words, binding spells, all that is dark and sinister and best left forgotten beneath the bogs. It's not a world to-"
“So what?” Harriet snaps. “Okay, magic’s real! But so are demons an’ ghosts an’ miracles! Why should that stop ya?”
“Because even knowing this information can put you in danger-”
“I’m already in danger!” She starts to shout. “Ya left me with that man!”
“A mistake. One of the worst I’ve ever made. One I won’t make-”
“IT WOULDN’T BE A MISTAKE IF I COULD DO WHAT RED DID TA HIM!”
“You would be dead!”
Harriet leaps back. Rowe’s skin has started to glow, his eyes forming strange patterns, his voice doubled over. The entire presence sparking fear. Harriet feels her muscles tense, her nerves scream. She can’t not listen. Can’t look away.
“... to change you, I must kill you.”
As quickly as it came, the feeling passes. Rowe returns to a normal, exhausted look.
“And I will never, ever do that.”
Harriet looks at him warily. “If yer not an angel, what are ya?”
“A ghost. A Lazarus. A shepherd who has lost his flock, and must wander until he finds it again. Scripture is full of such stories. Moses, Jonah, Joseph, Job. Sometimes, to learn, we must suffer, and this body is the vessel-”
“This body? Not yer body?"
"Yes."
He looks at her, shadow cast in the moon.
"Harriet... for two centuries, the Black Prince has been dead."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
1649
From the tower he so often climbed, he sees it all. The docks and the shipyards. The fields and the mines. The town. That lovely castle town. The stables, the smithy, the chapel where he and his siblings once liked to hide as children.
Gone.
All of it screams to him.
All of it sears in flames.
He can see the banners, clear in the orange light. Grafted onto pikes, or sported on soldier’s armour. White lion on blue, a roaring maw, a crown on its head. It joins the noises far below, the barking orders, the kicked-down doors, girls’ screams and rending flesh. He trembles. The other lords would come, the old man had warned him of that. But he didn’t expect him. Parliament's dog. The killer of the King.
Britain's new ‘Lord Protector.’
For a while, Cornwall had succeeded. There was no tragedy, no horror, no bloodshed. The markers were destroyed, the lands made free, and to his own shock, the people seemed to prosper. Their smiles were wider, their bellies more full. For the first time in a long time, he heard music on the cliffs, and laughter like when he was the boy passing out sweets.
If only he could hear it now.
He throws open the hatch and rushes inside. Already their weapons are close, already he hears soldiers bark and mastiffs snarl. His breaths are heavy. He had taken wounds in the battle, arrows to the shoulder and gut. It made moving harder than it should.
Soon, his coughs fill the castle. Smoke starts to rise.
The door opens. He sprints into a bedroom, sparse and simple like all his things. There’s a bed. A dresser. A portrait of Christ, and the Good Book, in the tongue of his ancestors, the only of its kind the world ever knew.
He runs to the dresser, pulls open its top drawer. There’s a dagger there, large and shining in the lantern’s light. He looks at the hilt, jewelled and gold. The blade is six inches long.
He seizes it.
They will come to kill him. They will come, and he will fight. He will slaughter as many as they have slaughtered. They will not take him prisoner. They can’t. No special treatment, no noble name. He will die like all the others.
He stands at the door. The dagger shakes in his hands. The footsteps grow closer, the screams are so loud, and suddenly, the blade is thrown. It doesn’t even reach Christ, its target.
“DAMN YOU!” He sprints into it, pounding with his fists, eyes red with tears. “KHA DHE-VES! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO SAVE US!”
The portrait watches on, silent as ever.
“Why?” He slides onto the stone floor, head in his hands. “Why why WHY!?"
He starts to sob. The shouts and sounds of death. He knows their voices. Morwen, the baker’s wife. Jory, the youngest stableboy. He made such an effort to remember their names....
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“And I failed them.”
Gawen Rowe doesn’t blink. Only moves lethargically. As if in slow motion, Harriet watches him pull back his sleeve.
Her breath hitches at the inch-deep gash in his wrist.
“I failed them.”
After far too long, the Black Prince pulls the sleeve back down. Hiding the wounds that never healed.
“I awoke cursed. Warmth does not warm me, food cannot sustain me. I would burn to dust before you if you placed me in front of the Sun. I should be dead, Fireside. I should not be walking.”
She blinks. "Who did it ta ya?"
“A woman. With pale skin, hair white from the ruins and ash. She looked at me with my blood on her lips. I could feel the marks on her neck where she bit.”
“Why? What did she want?”
“War. She said my people weren’t the first, and only we, the Unbound, can save them.”
“Save who?” Harriet asks.
“Everyone,” he answers, slowly. “Everyone, while there are still stars in the sky.”
He exhales, lowers his shoulders, looking back out over the wilderness. Harriet stands next to him, her voice stern.
“Rowe… ya turned Red, didn't ya?"
"I did."
"I want the same. That beast ya’ve described, it’s come to my country. It’s come ta my town!"
"And Red had just lost his. He knew the risks, Fireside, in ways you can't."
"I wanna be strong."
“You’re already strong enough-”
“BULLSHIT! I'M WEAK! YOU FUCKERS ALWAYS THINK THAT!”
Her scream echoes off the cliff, heard and reheard a dozen times more. The Black Prince looks at her, shocked, and instantly, she fills with regret and pain.
“... Yer scared.” She says quietly. “Scared ya’d take somethin’ from me. But Rowe, I have nothin'. Nothin' but the dream. An' I-"
“You are the dream.”
She stops, bewildered.
“What happens when we’re done fighting?” Rowe looks at her, voice soft. “What happens when you no longer need to carry that gun?”
“I-I-”
“My dream is a farm. My dream is a smile. My dream is that you, all of you, can live like the humans you are. And if I Light…” His lip quivers, and he hardens. “If I make you... Nocturni... you'll never be..."
“No.” Harriet points at herself. “No, that’s my choice. An’ I ain’t findin’ another farm. I wanna stay with ya. I wanna fight with ya."
“There won’t be.”
“What?”
“Gawen Rowe.” He closes his eyes. “There won’t be.”
She shivers. Fear shooting down her spine. Suddenly, the weight of all his words collapses upon her shoulders. Curses and mistakes and failures and should be’s.
“No.” Her voice shakes. “No.”
“I exist to save your kind. I kill to save your kind. But that comes at a cost. That can’t be forgiven.”
“Rowe, shut up,” she forces through. “Ya can’t-”
“I must.” He interrupts her. “I told you, Harriet, Gawen Rowe is a ghost. When the monster dies-"
She hugs him. Squeezes him more tightly than she has ever squeezed anyone, and cries.
“I will go to the land of his people.” He pulls her in, feeling her tears. "And stare at the Sun no Nocturni can ever see.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
2004
She doesn’t expect her covers to grow warm. Or brightness to fall over her eyes.
Harriet stirs, with difficulty. Her mind is a swirl, the thoughts unsteady, every movement a struggle against stiff bones. Something in her heart freezes, a panic, a sense of wrongness that feels primal. But still, her first solution is just to… shimmy deeper into bed. Reaching for her gun and pulling it close.
It makes her eyes spark open. She can feel the metal’s searing heat.
The room is different. Structurally the same, but the colours… pop. She can see the subtleties in the burgundy paint, the wood floor. Her evening outfit shines green, rather than bathing in the usual fluorescent yellow tones. Harriet blinks at it, deeply confused, searching for answers on the wall, the floor, the ceiling. The lights are off. So where…
It finally hits her.
And she dives into the bedsheets for cover.
Breathe. In, out, in, out. She makes herself small, covering every part of her body. How!? She’s never woken early, not once, in all her centuries of deathsleep. Instantly, she starts drawing plans. She can shimmy on the floor, hide in the wash, stand in the toilet. It’s the last thing she wants Soteris to see, but it’s better than turning into-
Her thoughts are interrupted by sharp, airy laughter. Harriet hears jewellery shimmer with the movements. “A-Astrid?”
“Holy shit.” The girl wheezes. “The look on your fahkin’ face!”
Harriet pales. “How… how are ya-”
Suddenly, the rustle of fabric, blinding light. Fwoomp! Before Harriet can scramble for cover, Astrid leans inches away from her.
“SURPRIIIIIISE!”
Harriet’s fangs are out, her instincts nearly taking over. But she has enough control to not run, or tear Astrid’s throat out. Instead, the seconds pass, her eyes glued to the light shining on the young vampire’s face.
Astrid’s fine.
They both are.
Slowly, Harriet climbs up. Bare feet press on the tiles. Astrid steps back, watching her with caution, as she approaches the window with an outstretched hand. In the light, her hundreds of freckles are visible.
Her fingers touch plastic. A screen. She creases her brows, starts reaching back…
“Ah! ‘ARRIET, WAI-”
“YARGH!” She leaps back, and the plastic shield rattles. Harriet looks at her hand, now sizzling, her eyes searching for answers. Suddenly, she can see them - the projectors, the UV heaters, all of it reflecting this near-perfect image like polished glass. The gentle clouds, the flapping birds. The buildings and black cabs and aeroplanes moving by. Somehow, the River looks cleaner, with so many new bridges, so many ships. Towering above it all is a sphere of yellow light. Her eyes blink when she first looks at it.
But look at it she does.
"What'd I say, 'Arriet?" Astrid folds her arms. "He's a clever man."
She sees what no Nocturni should ever see. What one-hundred-and-thirty-five years have long denied her.