by Jay Kristoff
“… but the Maker God, great Lord Izanagi, refused to accept his wife’s death after the birth of Shima. His love for her was as deep as the ocean, as wide as the great blue sky, for indeed, the sky was blue in days long past. And, ignoring the warnings of the kami spirits, the Maker God traveled by long and hidden roads, to bring his beloved Izanami back into the land of the living.”
Yukiko and Eiko took up position quietly at the back of the crowd, leaning against the railing, towels and soap in their hands. Buruu stood beside them, tail sweeping from side to side, tense and irritable. The platform groaned as he shifted his footing. One of the children looked back and caught sight of the arashitora, breath catching in his lungs. He tugged on the sleeve of a friend’s uwagi, eyes like saucers, mouth opening and closing without making a sound. The friend looked up to see what the fuss was about, several others followed his gaze, and all of a sudden there came a great shout from the children; a jumbled clamor of overjoyed shrieks, a tumult of little hands and feet across the floorboards, running toward the arashitora as if he were some new puppy dog with which to play.
A single deafening roar rang out among the treetops, windows rattling across the village, wisteria petals drifting down to the forest floor in gentle, tumbling showers. The stampede halted as suddenly as it had begun, and the children scampered back to Daichi’s circle, pale and petrified.
The old man nodded a greeting to Yukiko, a small smile on his lips.
“Forgiveness, sama.” Yukiko covered her fist, bowed. “Buruu means no harm.”
“Do not apologize, Yukiko-chan.” Daichi glanced around at the children, a mock frown on his face. “Respect is a lesson well learned in the presence of thunder tigers.”
“We did not wish to interrupt.”
“It is no imposition. Please, stay. Listen.”
Eiko shuffled a little closer to Yukiko, whispering as the children resumed their seats.
“This is a kind of ritual up here. The children gather in the square at weeksend, and Daichi tells them stories of yesteryear. Gods. Heroes. Myths.”
“Is it weeksend already?” Yukiko blinked.
“Hai.”
Yukiko was astonished to learn that so much time had passed since she left Kigen. The days in the mountains had become a blur, one melting into another. It must have been almost three weeks since they first set out on the Thunder Child.
The truth was, it seemed like a lifetime ago.
The children watched her out of the corners of their eyes as Daichi resumed speaking, whispering to each other and pointing when they thought she wasn’t looking. Rumor about her battle with the oni had obviously spread, just as Kaori promised, and the youngsters peered at her with a mixture of open fascination and slack-jawed awe. Buruu growled whenever he felt little eyes on him, and most of the children had the common sense to avoid his gaze.
“And so it was, after many dark trials, great Lord Izanagi found the entrance to Yomi.” Daichi leaned back and took a sip of water, his voice rough as sandpaper. “The Devil Gate, here in these very mountains. And there in the underworld’s pitch black and endless cold, deep enough to freeze a man’s flesh from his very bones, he found his beloved. He could not see her face, but he could hear her voice, felt the touch of her lips on his own. His heart swelled, and he knew her for his wife, and her voice drifted in the dark like the sweetest perfume.
“‘You must not look on me, my love,’ she said. ‘For the light will draw the hungry dead near, and they are cold as morning frost and fierce as tigers. But lie with me now, like we did when we were young, and the islands of Shima were but a dream in my womb, yet to be born.’
“And so Lord Izanagi lay with his wife, and held her in his arms, and they remembered what it was to be young again—”
“Did they have sex?” A young boy piped up from the front row, eliciting a few sniggers from the older children. Daichi reached out with one quick, calloused hand and tweaked the boy’s nose. Yukiko laughed along with the crowd as the boy yelped in pain.
“Now, you mind your tongue, young Kuon.” Daichi wagged one mahogany-hard finger in the boy’s face. “I have the telling of this tale. When you are my age, you might know better than to interrupt your elders when they are speaking. Until then, my hand will have to serve in place of wisdom. Hai?”
“Hai.” The boy covered his fist and gave a little bow. “Apologies, sama.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Daichi shook his head. “A boy your age should not even know the name of such things, let alone speak of them in public.” The old man took another sip of water. “Now, where was I?”
“In Yomi,” offered a young girl.
“Ah, hai. Yomi.” He leaned forward to heighten the drama, his eyes wide. “The deepest and blackest of the hells, where the hungry dead dwell in cold and silence for all eternity. Why was Lady Izanami there, you might ask, and you would be wise to. For she was not wicked, nor cruel in her life. But these were the earliest days of this land, before the one hell became nine, and before Enma-ō was charged to judge the departed souls of the living. Before that, all of the dead dwelt in the dark and despair of Yomi.
“Lord Izanagi awoke in the blackness, his beloved Izanami still in his arms. And though he knew he was in peril if the hungry dead were to see his light, he longed to look on the face of his wife again. And so, taking the comb from his hair, he lit a flame upon it, and gazed down at his bride. But what he saw was not the face of his love.
“Lady Izanami had become rotten, as the bodies of the dead. Her flesh crawled with worms, and her eyes were empty holes and her tongue as black as pitch. For she had eaten at the hearth of the underworld, and was forever to be touched by death’s hand.”
Several of the younger children gasped. One little girl hid her face in her hands.
“Lord Izanagi was horrified, and cried aloud. And at the sound of his voice, Lady Izanami awoke and saw the burning comb in his hand. Her rage was terrible. She leaped at him, intending to keep him in Yomi, where they would be together always. Lord Izanagi ran, as fast as any god might, pursued by the hungry dead. But the Maker God was swift, and he sealed shut the entrance to the underworld with a mighty boulder, trapping his wife inside. From the other side of the stone, Izanami screamed that she was now with child, and that the demons birthed from her womb would destroy one thousand of Shima’s children every day to punish Lord Izanagi for abandoning her. And her husband replied thus:
“‘Then I will give life to fifteen hundred.’”
The old man straightened on his stool and cleared his throat, gave a small cough. He swirled a mouthful of water and spat on the decking, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“And there the boulder stayed for a thousand years, trapping all of Yomi’s evil inside it. Until a young and foolish boy…” he frowned at Kuon, “… moved the boulder aside and let Hell loose on the world again.”
Daichi looked up, fixing Yukiko in those steel-gray eyes. He stared at her for a brief moment, then turned his gaze back to his audience.
“All right, that is enough for one day.”
A universal wail of disappointment went up from the children.
“Aiya, I will tell you more next week. The tale of a great battle, and a greater sacrifice.” He looked around at the upturned faces. “The charge of the Stormdancer Tora Takehiko into Devil Gate, and how Yomi was sealed shut once more. Now go on, off with you. Mind your parents and see to your chores!”
The children stood and began to shuffle off, many of them stopping to cover their fists and bow to Yukiko, whispering behind their hands. A deep growl from Buruu sent the stragglers scampering to catch up with their fellows.
Daichi stood and walked over to the railing. Eiko covered her fist and bowed low as he approached. Yukiko watched him carefully, trying to recall where she knew him from. All around, the forest was alive with the sound of birdsong, the perfume of fresh flowers. The old man stared out into the ocean of leaves, wrapped in the smell of wisteria.
“The children have heard of your battles,” he smiled. “They are quite impressed.”
“Impressed that I’m still alive?” Yukiko watched him carefully. “Or that oni exist?”
“You forget where you are, Yukiko-chan.” Daichi waved his hand across the vista. “The haunted valleys of the Iishi Mountains. Demons are as real as the trees or the sky to the children who grow up here.”
“Then why do you stay?”
“Long shadows. Dark nights. As far from the Shōgun’s throne as a man can be, and a thousand and one myths to keep superstitious eyes away.”
“I thought oni were just that.” Yukiko looked down at her hand, curling and uncurling her fingers. “Stories to frighten the simple and the young.”
“I am afraid not.”
“Where do they come from?”
Daichi blinked, as if he didn’t quite understand the question.
“From Yomi, of course.”
“Yomi?” Her voice fairly dripped skepticism. “The deepest hell?”
“Hai.” His reply was flat. Iron. “The deepest hell.”
“But the old tales…” Yukiko shook her head. “Even if they’re true, the gate to Yomi was sealed shut. And the Stormdancer Tora Takehiko gave his life to see that it would remain forever closed. My father used to tell us that story all the time.”
“It was a great sacrifice,” Daichi nodded. “But the cracks are big enough for the little ones to slip through.”
“Cracks?”
“The great boulder that the Maker God pushed into place over the Devil Gate is only stone. Stone breaks under enough force. Enough hate.”
“So it’s all true? The old stories? The myths my father told us at bedtime?”
Daichi tilted his head and frowned, motioned toward Buruu.
“You walked into this village with a thunder tiger beside you. You have slain demons with your own hands. Are the old myths really that hard to believe?”
“They wouldn’t be myths otherwise, would they?”
“Then have a care, Yukiko-chan,” Daichi smiled. “Keeping the company of the last arashitora in Shima sounds like an excellent way to become a myth yourself.”
The old man covered his fist and bowed. Clasping his hands behind his back, he walked off across the rope bridge, eyes still on the forest. Yukiko stared at his back until Eiko waved the soap in front of her face, a gentle smile on her lips. With a mumbled apology, Yukiko allowed herself to be led to the bathhouse, conscious of the many eyes on her.
Her tantō was a comforting weight in the small of her back.
* * *
Their nook was on a branch behind the bathhouse, obscured by thick tangles of wisteria blanketing the walls and the deepening light of dusk. Isao crouched low, eye to the peephole. His friend Atsushi, a wiry, quick-fingered lad one year his junior, sat beside him. The younger boy had drilled the hole several months ago, and the experiment had proved so successful that he’d since expanded the venture across the bedrooms of at least half a dozen girls in the village. His name meant “industrious,” after all.
“Is she in there yet?” Atsushi whispered.
“Hai, shhhh,” Isao hissed.
“Let me see.”
“You go to the Nine Hells. I found her in the forest. Besides, you hogged it yesterday.”
“Well, Hachiro’s wife was in there.”
“Gods above.” Isao pulled away from the peephole and scowled at his friend. “She’s old enough to be your mother.”
“What can I say? I fancy older women.”
“Well, if you fancy being torn to shreds by the arashitora, keep talking.”
“Aiya, it’s days like this I wish we had a picture box.”
“Shhhh!”
Isao pressed his eye to the hole again. He could see Yukiko sitting to one side, running Eiko’s brush through her long, black hair. Steam uncoiled in a pale haze from the water’s surface, several sputtering candles the only illumination. As Isao watched, the girl stood and untied her hakama, letting it slip to the floor in a dirty heap. He could see the long, smooth line of her legs, leading up to the delightful curve of her buttocks just peeking out from the edge of her uwagi. His eyes widened and he broke into an idiot grin. Atsushi tried pushing him aside and he hissed, punching his friend in the arm. The boys struggled briefly, slapping one another and pressing fingers to their lips, each urging the other to shut it. Emerging the victor, Isao put his eye back to the hole.
“Oh gods, she’s taking her top off…”
Another brief flurry of slaps and hisses for silence. Yukiko untied her uwagi and slipped it off her shoulders. Isao caught his breath, drinking in the sight of the naked girl. Pale skin, bruised and gashed, the elaborate fox running down her right arm, one of its nine tails curled under the swell of her small, high breasts. Her skin was the color of honey in the candlelight. She turned toward him and stretched her arms above her head, sighing, slender, hourglass-shaped.
“You’re right,” Isao breathed. “We need to get a picture box.”
The girl padded toward the bath, a silhouette now against the flames. She dipped her toe into the water, hands of steam caressing her body. Sinking up to the waist, she turned her back toward him. Candlelight flowed over her skin, falling into shadows along the valley of her spine. She turned and Isao saw a small mole on her collarbone, hair flowing down over her left shoulder, a black curtain parting to reveal the tattoo underneath.
“Oh, shit,” Isao whispered.
“What? What?” Atsushi pushed his friend aside, pressing his eye to the hole, hands cupped about his face to cut off the light.
The tattoo was stark red against creamy flesh, spilling across her shoulder and bicep, striated rays reaching out toward her elbow. It was the hated symbol of a corrupt regime, an engine of greed bleeding the land and its people dry. The flag of the enemy.
“Oh, shit,” Atsushi agreed.
21
DYING LIGHT
Imperial suns drifted in a choking breeze, embroidered on long shreds of golden cloth, deep scarlet against a rippling, sunset sky. Despite the dying light of the day, the heat was a blanket; a living, breathing thing, smothering the stunted palace gardens with a leaden, sticky weight and soaking the flesh beneath in glistening perspiration. Servants stood poised beside spring-driven fans, waiting to turn crank-handles at the slowing of the blades, broad-brimmed hats and brass-trimmed goggles shielding them from the sulfur glare on the western horizon. A chosen few of the Tora court stood in the long shade of the broad palace eaves, cups of water growing milk-warm in their palms, doing their best to appear fascinated as Yoritomo-no-miya, Ninth Shōgun of the Kazumitsu Dynasty, hefted his iron-thrower and slaughtered another defenseless cantaloupe.
The melons sat in a neat row, impaled on the tips of nagamaki spears, juice trickling down the wooden hafts buried in the ground. As the shot from the iron-thrower rang out across the garden, the centermost melon exploded into a haze of pulp and shattered rind. The wilted sugi trees behind were painted in its innards, orange, slick.
Polite applause rippled among the spectators, compliments murmured behind the brass and rubber of their breathers, silken armpits stained with sweat. Why the Shōgun insisted on taking target practice in this awful heat seemed beyond them, but if any harbored resentment at being dragged outside to slap their hands together like trained monkeys, they swallowed it without a word.
The Shōgun raised his iron-thrower and drew a bead on the melon at the far left of the row, elbow slightly bent, chin lowered, feet spread. He struck a formidable pose; the ugly lump of pipes and barrels and nozzles in his hand was the only thing about him that lacked symmetry. His robe was woven of deep scarlet and pale cream, embroidered in golden thread with tall grass and prowling tigers. Long black hair fixed in a topknot, pierced with gleaming pins, his face and eyes obscured by his elaborate tiger-maw breather and its golden jagged smile. Fading sunlight glittered on the glass over his eyes. A thin patina of lotus ash dulled the
bronze of his skin to cloudy amber. The servant beside him adjusted his grip on the broad rice-paper umbrella, doing his utmost to keep his Lord in the shade.
The Lady Aisha watched her brother from beneath the swaying arms of a maple tree, surrounded by a dozen serving girls, wilting like flowers in the heat. Pale, porcelain skin, motionless as stone until the moment Yoritomo pulled the trigger. She flinched then, despite herself, jaw clenched, hand at her throat. The hollow boom of the iron-thrower was frighteningly loud, as if someone had chained Raijin inside the hollow tubes in Yoritomo’s hand, leaving the Thunder God only a tiny, black opening through which to bellow his rage.
Another cantaloupe shattered, a spray of bright orange against bloody sky. Another round of feather-light applause floated among the gray leaves.
The hiss and clank of ō-yoroi armor broke the stillness in the shot’s wake, the hollow report still echoing across high, glass-topped walls. The heavy tread of metal boots thudded against the veranda. Yoritomo was bringing the iron-thrower to bear on another melon when a thin, hoarse voice rang out across the garden.
“Great Lord, your humble servant begs forgiveness for this intrusion.”
Yoritomo did not bother to look over his shoulder, instead glaring down the barrel at the mottled rind of his next victim.
“What is it, Hideo-san?”
The old man paused, drew a crackling breath on his pipe.
“News from the Iishi, great Lord.”
Yoritomo’s arm dropped to his side and he turned toward his minister, hidden in the shade of the palace’s eaves. He squinted into the shadows, making out the looming forms of several Iron Samurai surrounding the major-domo, wreathed in chi exhaust, two more figures lurking in the gloom behind. The Shōgun beckoned. The samurai trod down the stairs onto the river-smooth stones of the garden path, pushing the figures before them. As the pair stepped out into the fading light, a hiss of surprise escaped from between Yoritomo’s teeth.
