Yokai

Mitikori hobbled through the cobbled streets of Hayasegawa. The small city had seen a lot of growth recently. Though the low water might cause an end to that. Hayasegawa was guarded by a river on its west side and was traditionally protected by the short mountains on its east. There was no shortage of yokai in the foothills, but they rarely crossed the town’s palisade walls. Now, with the increased presence of soldiers making their way north, Mitikori wouldn’t have to worry about more yokai. Only his injury. 

 The bleeding hadn’t stopped, but Mitikori knew better than to try and patch it himself. He kept pressure on it with a sling, hoping not to lose too much blood before he reached Seiryuji temple. The old Ronshin limped through the narrow stone streets. The bars were full with early night patrons. Some soldiers wearing similar armor to the ones that had saved Mitikori milled about looking for the redlight district. Sadly, tonight, Mitikori couldn’t join them. 

He crossed into Seiryuji Sanctuary as the first drops of rain began to fall. Nightly rain began to offer relief from the heat of the day. A shōzu came forward, holding a yellow umbrella over the Ronshin’s head. The young monk was only about fourteen. A new charge for the monastery, he still had boyish cheeks, though his neck and shoulders had begun to show signs of adolescence. His skin was dark, well tanned by the summer sun. In the low light, the boy took some time to recognize Mitikori. Finally, his eyes shone, “Mitikori-sama! I didn’t know you were back in Hayasegawa!” 

“I’m not. I was passing through when I found a tengu. I need to see Kiyomizuko.” The young shōzu stared down at the quickly soaking stones. 

“Mitikori-sama, I must warn you. Kiyomizuko-san isn’t like herself these days. We continue the rituals you taught us, but she has been having… convulsions.” 

“Convulsions?” 

“Sometimes she disappeared for days on end. The shōjō said he even found her out in the hills while he was meditating.” 

“But she’s here?” The bald-headed shōzu nodded. “Good, bring me some aodaitō. I’ll see what I can do.” 

The shōzu saw Mitikori into the abandoned lunch hall. The tataki floor was sunken. Dirt and violet flowers began to overtake the wood. It was in more disrepair than Mitikori remembered. Even the thatched roof had begun to collaspe in letting rain soak the old mossy floor. Two half-fallen cross beams cut the room in parts and let moonlight in. Mitikori left his blades at the door, sliding off his sandals as well. His feet creaked the decrepit floor. The old fire pit still lay empty at the center of the room. Old soot and coals had refused to wash away. As he stared at the pit, silhouettes of flame began to lap at the now burnt boards. The Ronshin sat down, rubbing his sandals on the lifeless soot.

“What’s wrong, Mizuko-chan? You don’t like the flowers anymore?” Mitikori set the aodaitō on the still taunt tataki mat. A chill crept into the room. Dark fog began to appear at the corners. Sparks drifted down. From the walls the Ubume appeared. 

Kiyomizuko was a pale Ubume. Her long hair was still singed from the fire that had claimed her and her baby’s lives. She wore the bandages that the priest had used to try and soothe her passing. Mitikori held out the flowers. A favorite of the once young mother’s. Kiyomizuko wailed lowly. She drifted across the room, casting a thin, ghostly light around herself. The Ubume floated through the flowers. She was uninterested. Mitikori’s brown eyes softened. “Something happened?” The Ubume wailed again. “You can tell me as we work,” Mitikori slid his kimono off his shoulder. Kiyomizuko showed little reaction to the wound aside from drifting in closer for inspection. She levitated perpendicular to the injury, her coal black eyes scanning the bloody mess. 

“Some tengu on the mountain. Luckily, the emperor’s lap dogs were there to kill it.” Kiyomizuko began to lay ethereal wraps on the wound. They lost their radiance quickly as the dark blood soaked into them. Though she didn’t touch it directly, thin stitches began to pierce Mitikori’s skin, pulling the ripped sinew back together. Mitikori winced at the pain. “What happened to your flowers, Mizuko?” The Ronshin noticed her still polished grave was covered in purple flowers that seemed to be held in a perpetual state. They didn’t wither or fade, just as the Ubame. Kiyomizuko shook her head sadly. She rubbed her pale skin against the Ronshin’s right temple. Mitikori reached up with his still good hand and rubbed the ghostly Yokai’s cold skin. “Lonely? If you do this to one of those poor shōzu, they might forget their heavenly vows,” the Ronshin chided. The Ubame continued rubbing his temple, though a bit slower now. She stopped her trance and floated weakly. Her blue aura had begun to fade. “Are you alright?” Mitikori’s tone was more personal. He stared into her jet-black eyes, seeing a long, dead emotion. Fear. The same fear that had overcome a young mother desperate to hide from her father. The fear of death. 

“What happened?” Mitikori stood. The Ubame cooed softly, trying to relax the Ronshin. Mitikori sat down as the Yokai offered more bandages for his wound. It wasn’t one of the priests. Mitikori knew them well. The gunmen were certainly disconcerting for other yokai, but Kiyomizuko couldn’t be killed. She’d chosen to stay even after she was released. If she so needed, she could simply pass on. 

Finally, the patching was done. Kiyomizuko touched Mitikori’s temple one last time. Her skin felt warm this time. Warm for a ghostly yokai, that is. Mitikori watched as Kiyomizuko drifted to her headstone. She gazed down at the flowers before laying down on the soft mats. Mitikori laid the flowers he had brought as well as a wooden charm. Kiyomizuko opened her eyes at the sight of the charm. 

“A gift for Kai-chan.” The Ubume smiled warmly and brought the charm close against her chest. For now, she seemed content. 

Mitikori found his shōzu waiting under the rain. As he slid the door close the boy didn't move from his hideout behind the steps. The young monk let the water fall onto his bald head, without moving. “How is the Buddha, Kōshin?” The boy didn’t respond. His eyes remained closed, fixed on the Dharma's heavenly sight. Mitikori gently kicked his shoulder and the shōzu fell over. Startled by his rude awakening, Kōshin jumped into a low bow, his face prostrated on the wet ground. 

“A thousand apologies, Mitikori-sama. The night air was just so peaceful before I knew it I had begun to–.” 

“Where’s the umbrella?” Mitikori’s long black hair had begun to soak its way out of the hair tie. Kōshin looked up at Mitikori. Embarrassment burned his cheeks a bright pink. 

“I forgot it.” 

Though soaked, Mitikori was happy to be back at Seiryuji. The food was always light, but the miso soup made the trip worth it every time. The rain had stopped. Hopefully, it would be enough to keep the rice fields green for a few more weeks. The Ronshin had been given a private room. The monks wouldn’t allow him into the main sanctuary with his swords. The room sat near the old lunch hall in case Kiyomizuko was still upset. Though, the Ronshin doubted she would wake tonight. A futon had been laid out with a pillow, another boon of not sleeping with the monks.

Mitikori shuffled his pack to the ground. Monks did not keep mirrors, but Ronshin did. He took out the silver oval, setting it on a wooden stand. His kimono was ruined again. The Kodama has sown it shut with reeds, but that wouldn’t hold to autumn. The scar on his cheek was now just one among the many. Mitikori Kotoba was an aging man, nearing his fifth decade. His face was long, and sharp from his usual lack of food. Prickly stubble adorned his mouth and neck. Sports of white had worked their way into his beard. Mitikori cursed at the sight of them. As he slid off his kimono, his muscular body was also covered in cuts and lashings. Mitikori let his black hair down. It crossed his shoulders, falling to the tops of his armpits. Perhaps he should get it trimmed while in Hayasegawa. Mitikori would change the bandages in the morning. Perhaps if he were charming enough, Kiyomizuko would even do it for him. He took out a pipe instead. It smelled heavily of the new, western kizami. A favorite of the Ronshin’s. Mitikori made sure to light a few sticks of incense first before putting the leaves into his pipe. He opened the south facing window to the overgrown garden that protected Kiyomizuko’s home. Drops of rain still fell from the wooden palisades. Taking a long drag, Mitikori wondered what had made Kiyomizuko so scared. 

It was autumn season again. The red and golden swirling leaves fell in a cascade around the small mountain village. The frost had come the night before, turning the leaves the most vibrant shades Mitikori had ever seen. Tonight there would be dancing, so already the inns had begun to prepare a feast. Cooked bass and rabbit wafted down the long trail to the village. Mitikori was patient. He counted the steps slowly. He still had many hours before dark. Best to enjoy the last glimpses of summer. 

Upon reaching the first house, Mitikori noticed laundry being hung to dry. No? Dye. Long violet ink stains covered the beautiful white cloth. Shibori, the likes of which Mitikori had never seen. Such amazing patterns, such unique styling—surely this was the work of a master. Mitikori crossed through the torii gate that stood over the yard where the tapestries were hung. Suddenly, a violet strip came loose from the line. Mitikori unsheathed Hikarimono in a flurry. He swung at the Ittan momen with a battle cry. The cotton cloth wrapped gently around his blade, slapping him occasionally in the face. The young Roshin stared the cloth feeling a burning blush spreading on his face. There was a laugh. So dainty and small that most would have never noticed it. With the cotton still on his blade, Mitikori turned. That’s when he saw her. The woman with the autumn hair. She covered her perfectly tanned mouth with a long violet kimono sleeve. Her eyes were emerald, like the finest Min jade. Her hair was what captivated the young Ronshin the most. Long auburn waves fell to her neck. It was as if the gods of the harvest had blessed her. Mitikori fell to the ground in embarrassment. He covered his head. The woman approached, laughing to herself. 

“Thank you, brave samurai. I would have been surely strangled if not for your daring act.” Her words were like honeydew melon. Tender, yet crisp enough to chide him. Mitikori couldn’t raise his eyes. Surely he now bowed before a goddess. “What is it, brave samurai, has the yokai choked you as well. Perhaps it is my turn to help you.” She reached down, gracing Mitikori with a gentle touch to his cheek. Looking up, Mitikori saw her smile for the first time. Her tan skin matched perfectly with the violet cloth. Her autumn hair blew gently in the wind. Without thinking, Mitkikori Kotoba said the only words he could think of, 

“Marry me?” 

The after lunch crowd shuffled through Hayasegawa. Mitikori sat under an old oak, waiting. Sunlight played on his eyelids. He had been dreaming. That same dream he always had. Finally, the deep mahogany colored Kago stopped before him. The man-servants lowered the carriage slowly. It settled on the now-dried dirt road. Aoyama-sama stepped out first. His broad shoulders and piercing gaze stood out well from the usual crowd. Mitikori caught only a glimpse of the shy Chizuru-san from behind him. A young woman. Only about sixteen. She would likely take the news very poorly. 

“What news do you have, Ronshin?” Aoyama-sama’s voice commanded respect with each word. Mitikori sighed heavily. He stood in traditional fashion, bowing for the lord. 

“Ill news, my lord. I found a samurai warrior, but the tengu found him first.” Aoyama-sama grimaced at the name. “I brought the beak of the killer.” Mitikori was keen to omit how he had acquired it. He presented the rapidly disintegrating beak from a cloth sack. He heard the wailing of Chizuru through the Kago. 

“And the warrior he was–?” 

“Dishonored, my lord. The proper funeral rites must be performed quickly.” Aoyama-sama’s dark eyes brandished at the word. 

“Blackgutted yokai. I’ll have more of the emperor’s men comb the hills for any last one of them.” 

“Might I ask why it is the emperor has so many troops here?” Mitikori handed the cloth to the Daimyo. 

“His star-seeing claims some tragedy will befall Tokiwa soon. The great shamans say they have seen bakekujira on the eastern shore. Some claim they even saw the great corpse of an umi bōzu.” Aoyama-sama stopped, “Thank you. I pray my daughter can find peace. With all the noise of the soldiers, where will you go?” 

“Noise has never bothered me, my lord.” 

“I doubt there will be many buyers here.” 

“The soldiers aren’t competition, my lord.” 

“No, they’re extinction. I like you, Mitikori-san. But it’s time these to yokai learn their place.” The Ronshin nodded. Aoyama-sama handed him a sack of koten. “Good luck, may peace finally come to these hills.” 

“May peace finally come to these hills.”