Chapter 3:


Mitikori finished the last of the miso. He cleaned out the bowl with a cloth before sliding it back into his pack. Finally, the afternoon sun had begun to wane. A few brave souls began to journey out from the safety of the inns to try and find work. Lord Aoyama was right. Noise was bad for business. With a low growl at his stiff legs, Mitikori rose from his spot under the oak. It was time to find the whalers. Bakekujira could just be the sign of a few too many arctic whalers trying to escape the heat. But an umi bōzu was an entirely different matter. In all his years of yokai hunting, Mitikori only knew of a few who had escaped the dark and foreboding sea spirits. None had ever tried to hunt them. Unless the Chosun’s Kamegaki Sen had gotten far more formidable than the old Ronshin remembered, even then, Mitikori had a hard time believing the turtle boats would come so far just to hunt yokai. 

Mitikori found his way to the riverside. Short docks provided ample space for fishermen. Umbrellas protected them from the sunlight, and the ever shallowing water provided an easy view of the fish below. The beached wood creaked as Mitikori stepped out onto the port. He folded his arms into his kimono before ducking under a nearby umbrella’s shade. The old whaler sat in his sleeveless jinbei. The light-colored fabric was open, exposing the long tattoos on his chest that ran to his back. His slightly-hairy, formidable forearms were scarred and cracked from the sea. He appeared half asleep as his fingers held on lazily to the bamboo rod draped into the river. 

Mitikori didn't wake the old man yet. Instead he peered past at the muddy waters. The river was usually far wider. Stretching about six shaku in season. Now it was only a pitiful four shaku. Reeds had begun to reclaim the bank on the far side. Some houses hung on stilts where the water once was. Now just hovering above a sandy ledge. 

“If the heat keeps up, how long will it be till you set for the northern floes?” Mitikori’s voice cut through the noisy afternoon locust’s trill. The whaler awoke from his nap without a start. His old sea-battered eyes opened, not to look at the Ronshin but to stare down at his line. 

“No more trips to the north for me.” 

“You don’t look that old.” 

“Certainly not; I’m still a few decades younger than you gray-head,” the much older fisherman chided. His weathered face scowled for a moment as he scratched his balding head. 

“Perhaps my impatience betrays me,” Mitkikori said, sitting down. “My apologies.” The old whaler laughed. 

“It’s just fishing, Ronshin. Not as exciting as all your monster hunting.” 

“Whaling is similar to yokai hunting. Yokai are just a bit more numerous.” 

“Whales are far more clever than most yokai,” the whaler remarked. 

“Then they make for formidable foes; a noble and worthy fight.” 

“Seeking to change professions after the Emperor’s gunmen blew up the forest?” 

“Riflemen are cheap. Most enlist just to play with the toys.” 

“Far more effective. One rifle is better than all three of your katanas.” 

“Perhaps. I have a vested interest in the northern coast.” Mitikori watched the fish dart in and out of the green moss hideouts. He gently passed a heavy bag of silver to the whaler. The old man didn’t count it. He just tossed it a few times to get the weight. He took out the top few silver pieces and put them into his coin purse. The rest he passed back to the Ronshin. 

“We’ll float tonight.” 

The whaler’s funatsubune was in good condition. The timbers were fashioned with new rope. The raft itself was about two shaku long and wide, in a square shape. A mat had been placed at the rear for the whaler to sit on with his long ro and push the craft down the river. The night air was far cooler than the day. Lanterns cast light over the water just until the end of Aoyama town. Then the only light was Mitikori’s pipe. Creating a dim, orange glow. The whaler didn’t chat much. In the moonlight, he kept a watchful eye on the ever widening and closing banks. They rounded another bend. The waters grew wider. Other streams and creeks poured into the Aoyo River. Mitikori watched the dark waters gurgle and bubble. 

“You brought cucumbers?” The Ronshin asked. 

“No, didn’t want to take those from your payment.” 

“Usually kappa hunting costs more than a float trip,” Mitikori groaned. 

“Well, just be happy I didn’t get the boys from the forty-second to come do this for you.” The funatsubune drifted to a stop as the overwhelming stench of gas began to ruin the night air. Mitikori took his twin katanas, leaving the third on the raft. The funatsubune bowed as the Ronshin stepped off into the dark waters. The smell was getting worse. There were gurgles and laughs. Rising up from the waterbed, the ugly green heads of the kappa released a terribly noxious odor. Mitikori sighed. Four kappas. In better years, a hunt like this would have meant a long vacation after it. Now he was doing it for free. 

The kappas gurgled and bubbled under the water, waiting for the old man. Mitikori waded out to them keeping his blades up. One by one, the dish-shaped heads vanished under the muddy flow. Then in the reeds, the monster hunter was alone. Or so the kappa hoped he would think. The first turtle shaped beak broke from the water, bubbles spread from the front and back of the water yokai as it charged towards the Ronshin. Mitikori should have brought a mask for the smell. The kappa was average sized. Beady red eyes glinted from sunken yellow sockets. Its shells barely cropped above the flowing river. It moved quickly despite its size. It was nearly upon him when the yokai stopped with a devious glint in its eyes.

“Cu-ko-bur?” 

“Not tonight. I’m going to need you to move so my friend here doesn’t knock the water out of your heads.” 

“Cu-ko-bur?” the second kappa questioned. It appeared behind the Ronshin cutting him off from the raft. Mitikori began to speak when he saw the form of someone in the waters. A woman, her kimono ripped, hanging on only to her arm. 

“Seems you’ve already eaten enough,” The Ronshin muttered. The first kappa began to rise from the waters. His webbed claws shone in the moonlight. 

He never got the chance to use them again. Hikarimono flashed with silver brilliance. The kappa’s head slid to the side before it came completely off. The other three circled the Ronshin. Two charged headlong. Their bodies cut through the water with alarming speed. The third began to drift under the bouncing ripples. Despite the current, Mitikori easily sidestepped the two oncoming kappa. As he dodged, Kurohada, the older sister blade, cut down through the kappa’s dish-shaped head. The skull split, sending blood and murky water into the river. The other kappa reached for Mitikori’s kimono sleeve. Hikarimono slashed the webbed hand clean off the turtle yokai’s hand. A clean kick to the center of its yellow shell sent the stinking yokai floating downstream. In the dark moonlight, Mitikori only heard the rush of the waves. But he smelled the last kappa. Both sisters flashed into the night sky before crashing down like thunderbolts. The kappa never resurfaced. Mitikori drew Hikarimono and Kurohada from its shell, crimson blood still draining off the Hihiirokane-steel. 

Mitikori found the raft empty. A quick search found the whaler carrying the woman, wrapped in cloth, up the hill. Mitikori decided to stay with his pack on the funatsubune. He watched the old whaler begin to dig into the clay soil. It took a few hours, but the old Ronshin was willing to wait. He smoked slowly at the last of the kizami.

Finally, the whaler joined Mitikori on the raft. He untied the ro and let the wooden craft float out into the current once more. 

“You could have just hired the riflemen for kappa. Took more time to clean my swords than to kill them.” 

“She was young. Only about fifteen. A young noble had claimed her. He will be here by the first harvest. In her short life, she suffered enough. The riflemen would only create a Yūrei by further desecrating her body. They cut down what the emperor tells them, but they forgot what makes them any different from the kappas.” 

“The smell. Riflemen are much worse.”