The Demon of Ishimura
When a dying man begins speaking of voices in his head, Yumiko must find what stole his mind.
O.
Yumiko leapt from the platform onto the train, knocking back the conductor. He fell to the side with the sliding door, clutching his cap as it rocked on his head.
“Watch it!” He shouted and glanced up at the young woman. The grey slate arches of Shinigami, the Grey Maiden, rested between the folds of her dark robes; polished black beads, each etched with intricate symbols, rattled on a thread around her wrist; and the ink-stained skin of her arm peeked out from beneath her robe’s wide sleeves. The conductor retracted with sudden reverence, springing into a stiff bow. “Apologies, lady mistress!”
Yumiko was unhearing and slid the door shut behind her. Her eyes were fixed through the carriage before her. Dark strands of hair had fled from her high ponytail, unkempt across her face. She settled her breathing. She flattened her hair and re-centred the many layers of fabric below her neck. She stepped through into the carriage. Its narrow aisle was surrounded by many rows of sparsely-filled seats. She assessed each figure as they calmly found their places.
Muffled through metal and glass, the conductor’s whistle shrieked.
An elderly man struggled to lift his briefcase onto the high shelves. Yumiko passed quietly behind him, unnoticed. A younger woman, glancing from a small paper ticket, struggled to find her seat. Yumiko stood close behind, tall over her head, eyeing each man and woman in turn. Further down the carriage, a man slumped down with a sigh. He pulled his coat close over his chest and plunged his hands deep into his pockets. A violent shiver passed through him.
Yumiko pushing her way past the woman though her eyes stayed fixed on the shivering man.
The woman apologized and quickly made space. Yumiko paced down the carriage, carefully to not to draw attention, and approached the man in his bundled clothes at the far end.
The train’s horn pierced through quiet carriages. The floor lurched forward as the train began to crawl out the station. Yumiko swayed with it as small cedar houses and their curved rooftops began to slide away. The train progressed to a pace that would keep steady with a galloping horse.
A few rows further down, the man was gazing out the window toward the setting sun as it flashed periodically through thin alleyways. He sighed again, though now relieved, his face soft and mellow after the prior melancholy.
Yumiko continued past him, stepping along with the rumbling carriage. The carriage ended with a sliding door. It held aloft a small glass window. Across the glass, a flash of condensation clustered as droplets and ran quick as rain downward. But with that flash, they formed and fled and were not replaced. Yumiko slid the heavy door to the side and was met by a rush of wind, billowing her long robes like full sails through the carriage. The ground rushed quickly beneath, rock and stone a grey blur. She leaned over the gap and grasped toward the other carriage. The handle was slick with condensation. Her fingertips slipped, but she herself forward and stumbled into the next carriage.
The passengers inside looked up in surprise, but quickly found reverence instead. They bowed their heads or looked away quickly. Yumiko steadied herself and continued. ignoring the carriage’s staring inhabitants.
An infant let out a loud bawling cry. Their mother quickly swaddled them against her chest, shushing it softly. It stole the gaze of a few passengers, a sudden and unexpected shriek. But one yelp was all it gave, quickly pacifying and quietening again. The mother apologized wordlessly to the carriage with nods and a sorry look. Yumiko stepped faster now, through the carriage past leather seats.
“You just don’t understand me!” a young man shouted at the far end of the carriage, rising suddenly from his seat and glaring at the young woman next to him. She cowered in surprise before placing a hand on his arm to calm his outburst. Several disapproving eyes twisted onto him and he froze in embarrassment. Rigidly, he bowed, apologized, and sat back down – turning to his partner with quick regret. Yumiko traced her fingertips across the etchings on those black beads around her wrist. When she found one in particular, she plucked it from the thread and clutched it in the palm of a fist.
She passed the commotions and arrived again the carriage’s end. The glass was streaked with trails of fresh condensation. She leapt between the carriages, through the encroaching fog that had begun to coil around the train, caressing the corners of the carriage with its wisps.
The next carriage was almost empty – rows of leather seats sat lonely in long lines. Near the door, a couple sat together. The man was focused on a small book in his hands. He turned to his wife with a shiver and a sighed.
Yumiko was knocked suddenly, as if runaway lumber crashed into her chest. She was thrown off her feet, onto the floor, catching herself on elbows before the edge of the train. But the carriage above her was empty – an invisible assault.
From below the layered fabrics of her robes, she reached into a leather pouch fixed to her belt. She pulled a handful of grey ash and held it, open palm, before her. She blew hard, scattering the dust high into the carriage. The turbulent gusts of the open doorway grew the cloud wide. The couple cowered in their seats as the grey cloud filled the carriage’s interior and illuminated what was unseen within.
Where the ash whirled, the dots illuminated with a pale blue glow. They outlined a creature in the swirling cloud. A bulb of bright blue drifted aloft, high in the carriage. Long tendrils coiled in the air, passing above, below, and through leather seats. Two of these tendrils were curled around the elderly couple. They gripped glowing strings that swayed slowly from each of their chests. The beast drifted in an absent breeze, anchored to the couple, like seaweed clinging to rocks in soft sea currents. On its far side, tendrils grasped frantically through the carriage but found nothing. The beast suddenly shook with a piercing wail – a shriek like needles through the brain.
The couple rose in panic and scrambled to the far end of the carriage, bumping into seats and tripping along the way. The beast was pulled with them, attached like a balloon to their backs, tentacles curling and twisting through the cloud. Yumiko threw herself forward, bringing her fist down hard onto one of the tendrils as it flicked up through the carriage floor. But her fist slammed hard into the carpet, passing through the glowing ash like empty air.
The fleeing couple disappeared through the curling smoke and the beast’s limbs became taut, stretched suddenly between their fleeing hearts and Yumiko’s fist. She pulled back, the stone now heavy and resisting her, and the beast released another horrifying wail. Its far limbs snapped back like an elastic cord and the whole beast rebounded through the grey mist. Its limbs curled wildly as it recoiled and lashed toward Yumiko. She reached out but the glowing whip passed straight through her, the drifting ash undisturbed by its quick strike. The intangible tendrils had wrapped around her heart, passing through flesh and bone, and squeezed. A sudden shiver ran through her body as it latched onto her. A deep cold erupted throughout her limbs, as if her heart had frozen within her chest. And with it, a wash of sudden sorrow overwhelmed her. From her chest drifted a twisted cord, glowing in the ash, spiralled threads woven into a tight rope. Around it, the beast had coiled its limbs and began to pull.
Yumiko plucked from her wrist a second bead and held it in her other palm. She spun her arm around to the coiling tendril, pushing both beads deep into its spectral limb. The beads became heavy within the glow, like sunken into thick sap, and she pulled hard in opposite directions. The limb contorted, stretched suddenly thin, and snapped. Where it broke, small sparks of light cascaded through the dust, and the severed end dissolved into the dust. Another wail pierced the carriage.
The beast spun its limbs around, all seven or eight of them, and whipped them around that cord at Yumiko’s chest. As if plunged into frigid water, her body seized and she fell to her knees. Her limbs shuddered uncontrollably. This is the end. The thought penetrated her skull so suddenly, placed there unnaturally. The beast clawing its bulbous head toward her. And beneath its glowing core a beak revealed itself in the ash, gnashing and sharp as talons. Yumiko threw her fists at the sides of the beast’s head, the black stones in her palms sinking slowly into its amorphous skin. She yelled as she pulled, but all her might was absorbed by its viscous form. One of the stones pulled out, splattering a glow across the grey cloud, but the beast continued unphased. She pushed against it, holding it back with the sunken stone, but it encroached closer. It pulled itself nearer and nearer, beak snapping closer and closer to that twisted cord at her chest. The cold air stung her skin where the tendrils lapped through her. I can’t win. The thought appeared in her mind so solemnly. Though she knew it was not her own. The cords at her heart began to loosen. Their thin threads unfurled feebly. She was exhausted. The beak opened wide, inches from her chest. A bright star-like orb hid behind its stretching mandibles, deep within the beast’s bulbous head.
She threw her arm fast and straight through the open beak. Her fist struck the orb at its centre with an abrupt stop. The bright light disappeared within her fist. As if on a gentle breeze, the beast’s amorphous skin began to drift away as its limbs dissolved into the mist. The shivering subsided. And that artificial despair washed away.
She kneeled on the floor of the carriage, tossed side to side by the rumbling train, and caught her breath. The dust around her fell like drifting ash of a past bonfire, settling on her dark hair and shoulders. And, as the grains swirled about her hand, coiling around the black stone, they briefly illuminated with a pale glow before resting onto the carpet, grey and dull.
Eventually, the train slowed as it approached the next station. She brushed the dust from her hair and shoulders, recollecting what she could, and re-centred her robes. She raised herself from the ground with a sigh.
I.
Yumiko pushed back the draped curtain and leaned into the soft light of the interior. The smell of gone night rain, like damp moss, drifted with her through the open doorway and mingled with the earthy aroma of freshly brewed tea. A single oil lantern bathed wooden floorboards and white plaster walls in orange hue. Below it, an old woman sat at a low round table, her wispy grey hairs wearily short around her head. Her posture was bent uncomfortably, leaning deeply forward as if to catch the steam that curled from the small cup in her hands. But as she dragged her gaze toward Yumiko, her neck still protruded forward, not upward – a consequence of her old age.
“Good evening,” Yumiko said softly, lowering her head in respect. “I apologize for the late arrival, but I was hoping I might stay for the night. If you would have room for me.” Yumiko smiled gently as she raised her raised her gaze back to meet the woman’s, careful to not hit her head on the low ceiling. A wide smile pulled across the old woman’s face, bunching her wrinkled cheeks up over her eyes. She spoke as if time would stretch to an eternity, digesting each word and its echoes before beginning the next.
“Welcome, dear… and good evening… Yes… We have rooms…” the words trailed away. But before Yumiko could reply, the woman continued. “… for you here … Please… come in…” The words trailed away again. The room fell silent. The lantern flickered. Yumiko was unsure whether the sentence was complete.
“Thank you.”
Yumiko removed her worn boots and placed them on the cobbled stones at the entrance. She stepped up into the raised room, crouching deeply as if to mimic the old woman, her high ponytail brushing against the ceiling’s low wooden beams. The resin-soaked floorboards were cold against bare feet. The older woman swapped her cup for the lantern before raising from her cushion. Even now, standing with her back still arched, the woman had no fear of the low ceiling since it was lofty above her. She turned without a word and shuffled to a far doorway. Long shadow paced around the room, hiding from the lantern’s glow.
As the light spilled into the next room it illuminated a long corridor, flanked by walls of wood and paper. Doors remained open, revealing small simple rooms filled only with mats, bedrolls, and floor cushions. Each room copied the last, empty and dark.
The elderly woman continued to shuffle along creaking floorboards until she came to a wider set of doors at the end of the corridor. On the doors were painted a tiger and a fox, black ink on paper, each chasing the other’s tail in a wide circle – a reference to the folktale of two demons that had long survived to teach children the reward for honesty, and the punishment for deceit.
Sliding one of the doors to the side revealed a room much larger than the others. A kind warmth spilled from the room, wrestling the nightly breeze. The lantern’s glow bounced from glass vases that held long-stemmed flowers. Scrolls of ink calligraphy draped like curtains aside large windows that peered up into the sparkling night sky. At the centre was a large bed, with a curling wooden frame that lifted it high off the ground. A room for distinguished guests. The woman motioned her inside with a smile. But Yumiko stayed in the cold corridor.
“For you…” the old woman insisted, her voice hoarse and croaking. “It is an honour… to have a demon hunter at our inn… I insist.” Yumiko’s unusual appearance had revealed her oath, though she had made no attempts to conceal it.
“I simply cannot accept. Another room will do just fine.”
They stood opposed at the threshold. It was rude to refuse a gift. But eventually the woman yielded and closed the sliding door. The corridor fell cold again. She motioned to the adjacent room, one of the many copies of that small simple room. Yumiko crouched through the short doorframe. Silver moonlight tumbled through a small high window. She gazed up for a moment at the moon’s pale face. The old woman followed and knelt at a small table to light another oil lantern in the corner of the room.
“Tea…!” the woman exclaimed.
But before Yumiko could reply, she was shuffling out of the room.
Yumiko began to unfurl the many layers of robes that wrapped around her, keeping her warm despite the recent chill. The top layer, loose fabrics of black and swirling greys, she folded neatly and placed on the floor beside the bedroll. Below, a layer of white and similar swirling greys, she delicately placed next in line. Then again for several more layers of monochromatic cotton, placing them in a neat line that bordered the edge of the room. One of the folded piles was crimped slightly so she undid it and refolded it back into place. Better.
She stood in the middle of the room, now just in a tunic and leggings. Around her chest, a leather strap kept a messy notebook holstered against her side. Pages were haphazardly tucked into the book, curling at the ends or folded within it, bulging it at random points. Around her waist was a leather belt holding many pouches and small bags, a surprising assortment that hid below her many layers.
The shuffling of fabric across floorboards reappeared with the faint creaking of wood. The door slid open once again. The old woman entered with a teapot and stone cups that wobbled precariously on a wooden tray. She set it down on the table in the corner and began to pour.
“What is your name,” Yumiko said, “so that I might thank you properly for your hospitality?” She began to untie one of the small leather pouches from her belt.
“I am… Oba Kame…” the old woman replied as she intently watched the steaming tea that poured from the pot’s spout.
“Well, thank you Ms Oba. You have been most welcoming to me. I am Yumiko, of Haiyama Shrine.” She opened the pouch and pulled a handful of small dull coins from it, counting them in her palm. “I hope this will suffice as thanks.”
She held the coins out to Ms Oba. Wisps of grey steam spiralled around the old woman, the cups now filled to the brim with faintly-green tea. But she did not take them. She put her cold hand below and curled Yumiko’s fingers back around the coins.
“No need, child…”
“Ms Oba, I haven’t earned it. I’ve not done anything for you or for anyone in Ishimura yet. I wouldn’t be right.”
“Well… I hoped… there is…” the words trailed away again, but her mouth remained open. Her face, which before was pushed high by a wrinkled smile, turned wide and low as her eyes drooped. “If you could spare the time…”
The room fell silent. Yumiko placed the coins back into their pouch.
“My current task is not quite over. I still need to decant a Shade’s soul at a shrine…” She had affixed that stone back onto the thread around her wrist, but now it seemed dull and black as the others, unassuming. “But… it’s not urgent, I suppose. I could spare some time.”
Steam coiled upwards in the still air above the cups. There were a few moments before Ms Oba continued.
“My daughter… her husband, Ichiro… he’s gravely ill… for a while now… if you could see him… perhaps you might know… his illness…” she looked up at Yumiko, her frown now revealing her small eyes.
“I can have a look, Ms. Oba. But my expertise lies not in medicine. I’m unlikely to help a bodily malady.”
“I understand… The Grey Maiden’s blessing alone… would bring comfort…”
“They approach the mists?”
“I fear so…”
“How unfortunate.”
“It was so sudden…”
“Fate can seem cruel at times. But she need not explain herself.”
Yumiko took a sip of tea. It was scolding across her tongue and throat. Though she had sworn herself to the Grey Maiden, and those recitals were still etched into her memories, the passage of mortal life into death was not her focus anymore. She hunted all that would elude the mists, not those who passed into it. But it would be rude to refuse a request – a small detour to review an illness she could not, and even would not, quell.
“Where will I find him?”
“Down the street… the house with the green door…”
II.
Yumiko stood before a round wooden doorway, painted pale as lemongrass to hide the chipped red cedar beneath. Dawn pierced far-off mountain ridges, casting long shadows across the hillside town. A cool breeze waded up through the cobbled street, disturbing tall green bushes that secluded rows of quaint thatched cottages. As Yumiko knocked, she caught the eye of a young man some doors down. But his red hair quickly disappeared, shooed away by Yumiko’s wandering gaze. Behind the pale door, light footsteps ceded to the rattling of locks, before the door opened.
“Good morning…” yawned a woman from behind the opening door. Her dark hair was messy from the early morning. Her face knew weariness, creased from stresses old and new, but had not yet surrendered to old age – it still shone with a beautiful maturity. She lazily looked Yumiko up and down, a little dazed in the early morning. But when her eyes came to the beads at her wrist, they quickly darted to the ground and she sprung forward in a bow. Her voice animated, hurried to not waste Yumiko’s precious time. “Lady of the Grey Maiden!”
Yumiko returned the respect with a bow, leaning further to match the woman’s lower height.
“I am Yumiko, of Haiyama Shrine, Ward of Yushima and Lady of the Grey Maiden. I have been asked to see to Ichiro’s malady, though I cannot promise any miracles.” Each word she spoke, she enunciated clearly, as if a regent or a scholar.
“Oh thank you, my lady.” The woman’s face elevated as she stepped forward and clasped her hands around Yumiko’s in thanks. Yumiko flinched but resisted and held still in the woman’s grasp. “Megumi,” she nodded her head again. “This way please!” And she led Yumiko into the small home, through a narrow corridor of wood and plaster. She stopped at a closed and nestled up to it. Gently she spoke beyond the door, “Ichiro, honey. A Sanctifier has come. She’s here to help you.” Yumiko winced.
Yumiko was confronted by the dry smell of stale air, thick and warm. Curtains pulled across large windows to block the rising sun. On a wide bedroll, spread across the ground, there was a bundle of sheets and pillows. Within its writhing mass, a face crested between the cracks like a drowning man gasping for air. But he was still, almost unmoving other than the slow rise and fall of heavy breath. His face was matted with dark strands of hair that clung to his damp face like tendrils curling around his eyes and nose. His eyes opened slowly, heavy from the humid air, and he turned toward Yumiko. His expression did not change, but he acknowledged her presence in the room.
“Hello, Ichiro.” Began Yumiko politely, stepping through the room and kneeling by the low bed. “I am Yumiko, of Haiyama Shrine, Ward of Yushima and Lady of the Grey Maiden. I have promised to look to your malady, but, as you might expect, my expertise does not fall upon the illnesses of the body. So, while I may be able to rule out a sickness of the soul, I may not find the cause or cure for your illness.” The man blinked, as if to acknowledge the caveats upon Yumiko’s act of care. “I have a few tests I would run and a few questions I would ask. Would that be alright?” Her voice was gentle and caring – precisely rehearsed.
The man grunted, shifting slightly in the bed. From beneath her robes, Yumiko retrieved the notebook and, flicking to a specific page, ran a finger down a long list.
“Can you tell me when this illness began?”
“A few moons ago. It came on very suddenly. I woke –” He was interrupted by a violent cough. Yumiko flinched away with a scowl. “I woke in a sweat,” he continued. “My whole body aches. I just feel so drained. I can hardly move.”
“He’s never had any issues before,” his wife added.
“Are they all the symptoms you’ve had? Fever and lethargy?”
The man looked at Yumiko wearily, mouth slightly agape.
“There was… something else,” he spoke apologetically quiet. “But I’m not sure how relevant it is.”
“Tell me.”
He hesitated, glancing back and forth between Yumiko and his wife,
“A little while after the illness began, one day, I felt a burst of pain in my chest. It was as if… as if my heart was being ripped out. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
“Ichiro?” scolded his wife, clearly hearing this for the first time.
“But, but-” he stammered. “It felt like a dream. There was that sudden pain… then I woke up. But, that next morning, I felt… lighter? The illness stayed but I felt at peace for the first time in a very long time. It was like… up until then, my mind was foggy. Like my body was acting on its own, ignoring what I really wanted. Like my life was playing out before me. But without me in it… Then that morning, the feeling just stopped. It disappeared.”
He looked up to Yumiko and his wife for validation. But Yumiko’s eyes were narrowed, piercing with deadly gravity.
“Those battling thoughts. Did it feel like two lines of thought – just two – as if your mind was in half?”
“Er – yes… Yes! But only one side would win.”
“And you were the one that lost.”
“Yes… It felt like… like the others came from somewhere else.” He turned to his wife. “I wanted to tell you… but the words never came out.”
The couple continued back and forth as Yumiko’s gaze quietly traced the room. Her eyes were glazed over, not focusing on any one item in particular.
“Ichiro,” she interrupted. “Would you mind if I conducted a short test? It isn’t intrusive or painful, merely a dusting of powder.”
“Uh, of course.”
From her belt of pouches, Yumiko pulled a small palmful of grey powder, like fine ash left after a campfire’s long vigil. She leaned over to Ichiro and pulled away the sheets that bunched around his chest, revealing his bare torso. Gently, she blew the powder over him, and it swirled as a grey cloud above him. Fine particles drifted lazily through the air, falling slow as white snow. As they wandered downward and settled, the dust stuck to his sticky skin, soaking into the sweat that lined his burning chest. Within the cloud, where the dust swirled aimlessly around him, the particles began to glow with a pale blue light. From his chest, wisps rippled like the ends of a fraying rope in an absent breeze. The lines twisted and coiled, but drifted into nothing, split at the ends.
“What is that?” Ichiro asked.
“Your soul. The dust catches the light our eyes cannot see.”
Ichiro held out his hand to touch it. But his fingertips passed through the frayed ends like empty air, buffeting them gently in some invisible wake. He looked up to Yumiko, whose brow was firmly placed on a stony face.
“Should it be this frayed?”
Yumiko did not immediately answer. She watched the tendrils as they absently waved. After a moment she spoke in a clear voice, factual, like a professor to a classroom.
“When we are born, the tether is meek. It grows as we do, tightening and strengthening, coiling around itself. But over time, it loosens. The ends fray and the strands unwrap. That is life.” It was true – that is the nature of mortality – but her words avoided the question. For a man of his age, the tether was unnaturally threadbare, worn short by a great tension.
The room fell silent. The grey dust eventually settled upon the man’s torso, collecting in the creases of his chest. Yumiko brushed it aside with a small cloth and covered him again with bundles of sheets.
“Ichiro, one more question,” she said. “Do you remember who visited you around the time of your… revelation?”
“Well…” he looked to his wife for support. “Mostly just Megumi and Anzu, I think.”
“A few in the town came to wish Ichiro well when he first fell ill.” Megumi corrected him. “Some have come back again since, but it’s been infrequent. From those I can remember… Kazumi… I think Usagi… Ushi, of course… Ami and Hajime came over very early into your illness…”
Yumiko scribbled the names into the spaces on the page, between other scrawled symbols and sketches.
“Have you seen any of them since?”
“Only Ushi, of course. He helps a lot with Ichiro’s care.”
Yumiko scored a line through one of the names.
“And the others?”
“Not so much. Is there an issue?”
“Not at all,” Yumiko lied, snapping her notebook shut. “I’m sorry, Ichiro, but I believe your illness is one I cannot help you with. An infection you must defeat yourself. Though the symptoms can be treated, the cause cannot. Keep hydrated, keep rested, and I would advise inviting in the Sun and fresh air every so often. I’m sorry I can’t help further, but I give you the Grey Maiden’s blessing.” She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes for a moment, still kneeling by his side. They both thanked Yumiko as she stood.
After she had stepped out of the room and the wife had closed again the door, Yumiko turned and addressed Megumi. “Might I ask – who is Anzu?”
“Oh, of course. Our daughter.”
“Is she home now? I would love to meet her before I go.” She feigned interest.
“She’ll just be in her room; I’ll fetch her.”
III.
A few moments later, Megumi returned with a small girl of only a few years. Her hair was bunched into two round buns on the top of her head and her face was small – two tiny eyes and a little nose scrunched small onto a round face. Below her arm she leaned on a crutch, her left leg bowed and bent. She scarcely seemed to put any weight on it as she stepped slowly along the corridor, Megumi supporting her with each unsteady step. She looked up at tall Yumiko towering above her. Yumiko leaned down, crouching onto her knees to the same height as the little girl.
“Hello,” she smiled. “I’m Yumiko.”
The girl looked up at her mother, uncertain, who nodded towards Yumiko – go on.
“I am Anzu.” She pronounced each syllable in turn, sounding it out one-by-one. She glanced occasionally up into Yumiko’s dark eyes but hardly kept eye contact, instead tracing the bright wooden floorboards and cobbled entrance-way steps.
“You’re a strong girl aren’t you.” Yumiko then looked up to Megumi. “How long has her leg been this way?”
“Since she could walk. We’ve had doctors come visit but all they’ve done is give her crutches or lock it straight.”
“I see… how unfortunate.” Her gaze passed back to Anzu, inspecting her features, but she continued to address Megumi. “Does she often faint?”
“Faint? No, no, I’ve never seen her faint.”
“That’s good.”
Anzu whispered, still avoiding Yumiko’s piercing eyes,
“Is daddy going to be okay?” Her face was slumped, eyelids low and lips flat.
Yumiko’s demeanour shifted suddenly, she smiled wide and her brow raised. “He’s very strong, Anzu.” She spoke with certainty, but with the friendly lilt. “You know…” Yumiko slid her hand into one of the many pouches affixed to her belt. “I have a special candle for you to keep your father safe. I think you might just be the only one here strong enough to use it”. Her smile curled at one end as she pulled out a small glass jar, no wider than a coin. Anzu’s face elated, mouth opening slack in youthful wonder, intent on the little jar. Yumiko unscrewed its lid and held it up to her nose. She breathed in deeply, her nostrils flaring and eyes watering slightly, but exhaled as if she had breathed in the fresh salty air of a sea breeze. She then held it toward Anzu’s face and lifted it below her nose.
“The scent wards off bad spirits. What do you smell?” Anzu, copying Yumiko, took in a deep breath.
“Umm…” there was a blank look on her face. “I don’t know.”
“I see.” Yumiko’s friendly face faltered for a moment, her eyes and lips falling lax before she reclaimed her welcoming appearance. She placed the small jar in Anzu’s tiny hand, who instinctively turned to her mother and gave it to her instead.
“What do we say…?” She spoke sweetly to her child.
“Thank you,” mumbled Anzu, her eyes lost again on the floorboards.
“Thank you for coming, Yumiko. If there’s any way we can repay you, we may have some coins we can-” but she was interrupted by a light knocking on the pale door. “Oh, just one second.” She politely pushed past Yumiko to open the door.
A square man, with a wide torso and round shoulders filled the doorway, silhouetted by the bright sun that had wandered a little higher into the sky now. He had the physique of a farmhand or carpenter, someone whose work was exhausting and toiling. His head was small atop his mountainous form, balding but bearded, yet despite the looming presence his eyes were soft with kindness. Creases surrounded his small eyes and his rough face was weathered as leather, spotted with sun-forged freckles.
“Ushi, it’s great to see you,” Megumi smiled to him. He replied, low but gentle like the muffled rumbles of a passing storm.
“Megumi, I just wanted to check how…” he cut off when he noticed Yumiko in the corridor. “Oh, I’m sorry for intruding.”
“Not at all, Yumiko here was just visiting Ichiro. She’s a Sanctifier from the Haiyama shrine.”
“Haiyama shrine? It’s an honour.” He nodded his head respectfully. “I’m Ushi. Fisherman and… family friend.” He looked over to Anzu and Megumi with a soft smile that hid the tinge of melancholy in his eyes.
“Ushi has been so kind to us while Ichiro recovers.” Megumi explained, placing a hand briefly on his large hair-matted forearm. In his hands he was holding a small paper bag up in front of his barrelled chest. It was small and crumpled in his large hands.
“Ushi,” Yumiko said slowly, drawing out the word to introduce a following series of questions. “Megumi says you’ve seen Ichiro frequently since he was ill, is that right?”
“Yes. I’ve been helping with his care. Changing sheets, preparing meals.”
“Ushi’s a fabulous cook,” Megumi interrupted and he shook his head with a smile.
“You’ve known each other for a long time?”
“Not very long, though our families often had dinners together. When Ichiro fell ill, I thought it right to help.”
“That’s very caring of you.” Though Yumiko’s flat voice missed the compliment’s intention.
“Thank you, though it’s a returning of favour. I lost my own family a while ago. And Ichiro has done so much for me, so it’s the least I can do.” The air stilled in the dim corridor. Anzu fidgeted in the silence, blank to the back-and-forth between adults. Ushi suddenly noticed the gift between his palms,
“I have a gift… for Anzu,” he glanced down at the little girl, a soft smile warming his face, and held out the crumpled bag to Megumi. “Rock-salt sweets, peach and pear. Usagi made them.”
“Oh, Ushi.” Megumi accepted it into her free hand. “They’re her favourite, how did you know.”
“Usagi?” Yumiko asked, thinking to the names scrawled on her notebook page. “Would you bring me to him?”
“Oh – of course.” Ushi nodded. “He’s just down the street.”
Ushi hesitated, glancing at Megumi and then down to Anzu. A question seemed to bubble within him briefly. He fidgeted slightly, before continuing to Yumiko. “We can go there now.” He turned to Megumi. “I can come back later.” His eyes glanced down to her other hand, still holding the open glass jar. “And what’s in the jar?”
“It’s to ward off bad spirits. Yumiko has kindly given it to us, to help with Ichiro’s healing.” She held the open jar to her nose to feel the aroma that was so supposed to dissuade the beyond. Instinctively, she recoiled, turning her head away from the jar and scrunching her face small. Her nose wrinkled and eyes watered, as if she had just eaten an entire lemon whole. “Oh” she exclaimed, then recovered with a light smile. “I certainly see why that would work.”
IV.
The two came to a pale red door a few houses down, pressed into a house almost identical to its neighbours, though its colour had long faded. Ushi wrapped his knuckles against the door, a little loud as if surprised by his own strength. After a few moments, Yumiko could pick out a faint rustling, muffled behind the closed door. It approached, quietened, then disappeared. A few moments passed and… nothing. Ushi turned to Yumiko with a shrug – maybe he’s not home. But Yumiko stepped forward and bashed loudly at the door. Suddenly there was a crashing from within, the distant shattering of porcelain. Ushi looked at Yumiko, his face flushed with concern. Her’s was stern in frustration. Without hesitation, she kicked at the door directly at the bronze-covered handle and lock. It shook but did not budge. Ushi put a hand before her – let me. Yumiko glared back at him, she took a step back. With a powerful kick, he snapped the bronze lock, and the door swung open.
Yumiko leaped through the short corridor. A door was open. Inside, a young man was crawling over a countertop, halfway through an open window. The floor was scattered with porcelain shards – plates, dishes, and mugs lay shattered on the wooden boards, knocked aside by his scrambling. Yumiko pounced, grabbing his leg before he could escape, and threw him back into the room. He landed with a thud, hard onto the wooden floor, and yelped out in pain. He turned onto his side, groaning as he clutched his back. His red hair was strewn messily across his face.
“Usagi,” Yumiko loomed over him.
The young man raised his hands to ward Yumiko away.
“Don’t hurt me! I-I didn’t do anything.” His voice wavered as he spoke as if unsupported by his breath. His hands trembled.
“So why were you climbing through a window, Usagi?”
“I-I’ll give it back, I promise.”
“Give it back?” she shouted, pushing her face close to his. “And then what? Take another? What about Ichiro? Or however many others before him?”
Usagi’s eyes were wide, tears bunching on his chin, as he stumbled over his words. “I-I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yumiko,” Ushi said. “He’s just a boy.”
But she wasn’t listening. From around her wrist, she had pulled one of the small black beads from its thread and had placed it into her palm, closing it in a tight fist. She pulled up the sleeve of her robe and held her arm high, revealing wisps of black and grey ink that curled like smoke across her skin from shoulder to wrist. She rocketed her arm forward into Usagi’s chest. There was a crack on impact, and all the air escaped the boy’s lungs. He passed out immediately. His body went limp. In a quick, practiced motion Yumiko cast out a cloud of grey powder into the open air. It swirled around them, tumbling and twisting. She unfurled her fingers, revealing the black stone in her palm. The open window reflected from its dark surface between etchings of strange symbols. The swirling ash settled on the bead, dull and grey. She cursed under her breath.
“Yumiko…” Ushi stood in the open doorway, speaking carefully.
“He’s fine. He’ll wake in a few hours. Just some light bruising.”
“What did you do?”
“I got ahead of myself.”
As the dust drifted, it settled below Yumiko onto the boy – his chest lifting and falling slowly. A thin line idly rippled as glowing dots within the dust. But unlike Ichiro’s, it was neat and coiled tight. Like a paintbrush, the cords delicately wrapped into a fine point. And next to the boy, affixed to a long thread but cast carelessly onto the floor from the fall, there was a small black stone with symbols pressed into its surface. And where the dust settled upon it – it glowed a pale blue.
Yumiko snapped the string and held the bead close to her face.
“One of yours?” Ushi asked.
She shook her head. “No, but it is from Haiyama.”
“Someone beat you to it?”
“Perhaps.”
She pocketed it, stood, and brushed the dust from herself. Ushi lifted the boy from the floor and carried him to an adjacent room, resting him on a bed. Yumiko found a wide desk and sat down before it.
“You’re staying?”
“I’ll wait for him to wake,” she replied. She had pulled out her notebook and scored another name from the list.
“I’ll be cooking for Megumi and her family tonight. You’re welcome to join. Around sunset.”
She did not turn.
“Thank you, Ushi.”
He nodded and left.
When he had gone, Yumiko lit one of the tall candles that stood extinguished on the desk. She turned to a new page in her notebook and ripped it out. With delicate handwriting, like a calligrapher sculpting ink onto a page, she drafted a short letter, signing it at the end with a flourish. And when it was finished, she extinguished the candle and collected the wax that had pooled beneath it, pouring it at the base of the letter. She pressed the black bead into it, embedding the engravings into the hot wax. And when finally the wax had settled and cooled, she curled the page into a scroll and dropped it into her wide sleeve pockets.
Then, while she waited, she swept up the broken porcelain from the kitchen floor, tidying the room until it no longer bore the footprint of a confrontation. Eventually, as the Sun began to droop, Usagi stirred, and she kneeled next to where he had been placed.
“I would like to apologize for my unprofessionalism,” she said. “You are certainly a thief, for which you should be punished… just not by my hand.”
He grunted wearily, rubbing his temples, his eyelids heavy. She continued.
“Where did you get this?” She held up the black bead between her fingers, right in front of his slack face.
“I- err.” He was drowsy, rattled, but Yumiko was impatient.
“It’s from Haiyama shrine. That’s several days train from here.”
He shook his head sluggishly. “I- I got it from someone like you. Well, kind of like you. Or rather, she left it behind. So I- I picked up. But… she had already gone.”
“Pale hair?”
“S-Sorry?”
“Was their hair pale? Colour of straw.”
“Yes, I-I think so. But it was a few moons ago now, it’s hard to remember. I just know they had similar robes to you. That’s why I got scared when you arrived. I- I thought you had been sent to arrest me. Or – take my soul.”
“Do you know where she went after Ishimura?”
“I’m not sure… I-I didn’t talk to her-”
“Did you hear anything? Any hint of where she was going?”
“No… No, I’m sorry.”
Yumiko stared at him intently, driving her gaze deep into his skull.
“If you remember anything, anything at all, you send a letter straight to Haiyama. Understand? Give it to the trainkeeper and they’ll get it where it needs to go.”
“Okay. I-I will.”
“Get some rest.” She threw a pillow at him before rising from the floor. But as she left, he quickly remembered and sputtered,
“There was one thing I-I thought was a bit weird.” Yumiko turned to face him from the doorway. “I-I remember. She was wearing a white mask. Just over the top part of her face. It-It had these long antlers. I-Is that something she usually wears?”
V.
Yumiko returned to the pale green door and was met warmly by Megumi. With the orange sun falling below distant mountains, the interior was now illuminated by gently flickering oil lanterns. The smell of searing beef and ginger welcomed her in, the air warmed by burning stoves. Yumiko placed herself at the far end of a short dining table, shifting herself toward the end, making space. When the food was ready, Megumi took a plate, steaming with fried noodles, beef, and an assortment of vegetables, to Ichiro’s room. For a while she was gone, presumably helping him slowly eat what little his appetite and energy would allow.
When she returned, they all gave thanks to Minori, Goddess of the Harvest, and to Shinigami, Yumiko’s matron – the Grey Maiden. Anzu began poking clumsily at the different items on her plate, pushing vegetables around and away. Megumi and Ushi talked away, gossiping about various neighbours, new shops, strange travellers. As he talked, Ushi shovelled mounds of food haphazardly into his mouth, leaving small worms of soba wiggling in his thick beard. And Minato, apparently, she found Masahiro down at the pub again. Megumi would say. I thought he’d quit! Ushi would exclaim. A sea of faceless names rose over the conversation, and Yumiko sat quietly. Delicately she ate, her back straight and tall, unlike Ushi beside her who was hunched over his food as if protecting it from hungry eyes. Reiji’s started running recently – have you seen him in the mornings by the shore? Megumi would say. That must be a sight, Ushi would reply, and they would both chuckle.
A white mask. Shikako had never worn a mask at Haiyama. Though it had been some time since Shikako left to become Ward of Yushima – a title Yumiko had since received in her absence. Perhaps it was some strange fashion she didn’t know? It had to have some simple explanation. It had to. Since all she could think about were the masks of demons. Worn by demons who do not crave their anonymity, who do not live in fear of being discovered. Worn to squash a host’s soul and steal their body without opposition. But no, there was no way that Shikako could have been defeated like that. Usagi must have been mistaken. She would have defeated it swiftly and sealed it away. Usagi’s stone was surely a symbol of her victory and the mask her trophy. Or perhaps he had misremembered in his daze, disparate images blurred into one in a muddled mind.
“Have you been to the other isles, Yumiko?” Ushi’s voice barrelled through her train of thought.
“Oh-” Yumiko caught her bearings. “No, no. I’ve always lived on Yushima.”
“I’ve always wanted to see Reimei,” Megumi said. “Ichiro was born in Reimei. He even has old photographs of the Silverbirch forests there from his childhood. Photographs! It looks so beautiful.”
“I don’t think I could stomach the voyage.” Ushi said, scraping his plate clean.
“Oh, Ushi,” Megumi chuckled. “A fisherman who can’t handle a ferry. You’re always full of surprises.”
When Anzu had finished, or finished what little she wanted, Megumi excused them both and went to put Anzu to bed. Make yourself at home, she had motioned Ushi and Yumiko into the front room. Yumiko had declined but, after some insistence, yielded.
As she entered the room, she was hit by a strong sour odour, burning her eyes and nostrils – what could only be described as a could only be described as a vinegared lime.
“What’s the matter?” Ushi chuckled.
“It’s just so potent. I really shouldn’t have left them the candle – it’s quite cruel.”
“I thought it warded away bad spirits?”
“Not at all. It’s just a foul scent. But it’s one that some cannot smell.” She breathed through her mouth. “Gods, that’s pungent.”
Ushi let out a booming laugh as he slopped onto the floor, squeezing between the wall and the large round table that filled the tiny room. Into three glasses he poured white pear wine, the bottle already uncorked and half-finished. Yumiko kneeled in the far corner of the room.
“How’s Usagi?” Ushi pushed a glass over to Yumiko.
“Fine. Like I said, just bruised.”
“And that… stone? It’s what you were looking for, right?”
“Not exactly. But I think it means my problem here has already been solved.”
“Good to hear.” Ushi brushed his beard with his hand, finding leftovers of his prior meal. He downed the small glass of wine in three quick gulps, his cheeks already flushed with red.
“Ushi,” she continued. “Usagi said a Sanctifier came to Ishimura recently. Is that right?”
“Yes… a short while ago.”
“Did you speak with her at all? I’m trying to find where she went after Ishimura.”
“Nakamori – I think.”
“Nakamori? Or Shin-Nakamori?”
“She just said Nakamori. That’s all I remember.”
Yumiko tapped her fingernails against the filled glass. “Was there anything strange about her?”
“She wore one of those masks. Like the ones in old fairytales – tiger and the fox and such. Covered just half her face.”
Yumiko continued to tap against the glass, eyes on the liquid’s rippling surface.
“But weren’t they worn by demons in those old stories?” he continued.
Yumiko was quiet.
“You don’t think…?”
Megumi entered, smiling, and sat between the two of them.
“What did I miss?” she said. “Oh- I’m still not used to that.” Her face scrunched at the candle’s odour, it’s small flame still flickering at the centre of the large table.
Ushi slid the third glass to Megumi. “I was just going to say-”
“Megumi,” Yumiko interrupted. “Earlier today, when you mentioned who had visited Ichiro during his illness, you didn’t mention a Sanctifier.”
“I’m sure she forgot.”
“A few moons back,” she continued. “Another Sanctifier from Haiyama shrine visited Ishimura. Did they visit Ichiro?”
“Yes. Ichiro kindly helped her. She was trying to get to Nakamori, I think, but she wouldn’t take the train. I didn’t know why, but you don’t really question a Sanctifier. So, Ichiro rowed all the way to the peninsula where she could take a ferry further.”
“Ichiro was able to row so far?”
“Well, he’s not really a strong rower – and he gets so queasy on boats. But he’s always trying to help, so he did his best.”
“Even with his fever?”
“Oh, this was long before the fever. I remember it well actually. Ushi had left town for a few days to see his sister. But he’d always kindly said we could use his boat if we needed to, so that’s why Ichiro was able to help.”
Before the fever?
Shikako had come to Ishimura before the fever?
Yumiko had been so quick to accept that all was solved already, that Ichiro’s demon was either sealed away in Usagi’s stone or walking again as Shikako. But she was wrong. It was still loose. A demon lurked in Ishimura.
“Is everything alright, Yumiko?” Megumi asked, but she did not answer. She thought back to the names on her list. A few still remained. Kazumi. Ami. Hajime. Usagi and Ushi she had crossed off the list already. Usagi was safe – Yumiko had made that expressly, and painfully, clear. Ushi was also safe – a demon wouldn’t return so frequently to the site of their blasphemy. They wouldn’t cook and clean for a man whose entire life they had stolen.
A fisherman, uneasy on boats.
He had remembered Shikako, while supposedly being out of town.
Not once had he commented, or even reacted, to the pungent odour.
“Ushi.” She spoke plainly.
“I think I’ll head home. It’s getting late.” He looked over to Megumi, running his hand over his bald head.
“No,” Yumiko said. “Stay.”
VI.
Their eyes caught each other in momentary silence. Unspoken, a fuse was lit in both their hearts. They remained still – who would leap first?
Ushi jumped to his feet; a wildebeest caught in a leopard’s sight. He threw the table over, knocking Yumiko down beneath it. With surprising speed, he was out the room and through the corridor. Yumiko scrambled to her feet, throwing herself out the room and into his wake.
She ran out the door and into the dusk-smothered streets. To the left, his hulking form was barrelling down the hill. She pursued quickly, bounding great strides, leaping from stone to cobbled stone, cold against her bare feet. He turned suddenly, disappearing around a corner, but she was on him fast. He gained speed like a loose boulder down a mountain cliff but lacked elegance in the turns. The street became steeper, the buildings tall and terraced on both sides as the path snaked down the hill. As she chased, she ran her fingertips along the small stones around her wrist, until she came to one, flat and rectangular unlike the others. She hesitated. Do not harm the host – A distant memory welled within her mind. She relented, instead pulling a recent bead back off its thread, and held it in fingertips to her lips. Between rasping breaths, she began to sing. The melody was short and unmusical, its pitches eerie and its rhythm vague, interrupted by each footfall.
“du mutanil’otto uxaio iksha.”
She repeated the ancient words, the short melody again and again, until soon she felt the stone hum and her fingertips numb. She stopped, reared back her arm, and hurled the stone far down the street. The pebble, just the size of an apricot pit, whistled through the cold air and struck Ushi on his shoulder. The air cracked and boomed – like the Storm’s axe splitting the sky. He yelled in pain and stumbled, thrown over by the touch of thunder. The stone was tossed aside by the crash, clicking across cobbles somewhere down the street.
Ushi began to push himself wearily from the ground, his arm spasming as he put weight on it. Yumiko caught up to him quickly. She grabbed him and began to pull a new stone from its thread, a different symbol etched onto its surface. She growled,
“You-”
But before she could speak, he reared back, throwing her across the cobblestones. She collided hard with the floor, stones pounding nerve and bone. She winced, but did not cry out, watching as Ushi staggered a few paces onward down the street, now slow and sluggish.
“You can’t outrun me, Ushi.” She spoke through gritted teeth, lifting herself from the floor. He limped a few paces further. He knew it too. He looked side-to-side, houses towering high around them. The road extended far before it curled back on itself further down the hill.
He threw himself headlong through a tall ground-floor window. The window shattered. Glass rained around him, glinting in the full moonlight. The crash echoed through the empty streets. He held his arms over his head as he barrelled into the darkness, suffering a thousand cuts across his large stature. But he continued regardless, driven by fear – or a lack of care for a body not his own.
Yumiko cursed. He was relentless, trailing red blood across the lightless carpet. Through the long room, at its other end, she could see a pair of wide patio doors, leading out onto a high balcony. The other side would lead far along the snaking streets below. She would lose him.
She leapt after him, through the shattered window. But the shards were spread far and, on landing, a sharp pain erupted through her feet and up her legs. She stumbled as she landed, losing her grace, but continued her pursuit. She paced through the room, pressing red footprints into white carpet, each step a shooting pain through her body. With what strength remained, she threw herself into him. And, despite his mountainous size, it was enough to unbalance him. He toppled, crashing through the doors, and collapsed onto the balcony. Yumiko was sent tumbling and hit with the plaster wall, falling onto the stained carpet. The sound of two pairs of breathing, air ripping through burning lungs, filled the dark room. Ushi placed one hand on the ground to lift himself, but his limbs no longer obeyed. Yumiko was keeled over, supporting herself on the wall. She panted for breath, glaring at him.
“Surrender. It’s over,” she hissed.
He turned onto his back. His skin was slick with sweat and blood. “Please let me go,” he pleaded between gasping breaths. “I need to help Ichiro survive.”
“He won’t,” she growled back. “You brought this upon him.”
“That’s not true.”
“Two souls. It’s too much for one body. You caused this.”
“No. That’s not true. He’s strong and – and he’s free now.”
“It’s too late.”
Ushi’s voice quickened, a desperate panic in his throat. “But they need me.”
“They needed Ichiro.”
“But I am Ichiro.”
“You stole his body. You are not him.”
“Everything they loved about him.” His voice grew more forceful. “Was me. Megumi married me. She loves me. Anzu is my daughter. I am her father.” A watery film had begun to spread over his eyes.
“Your daughter? You gave her a sad short life. How old were you when you died? Twenty? Twenty-five? She’ll be lucky to make sixteen. And she won’t have the luxury of stealing someone like you did. We’ll make sure of it.”
“You can’t take them from me,” he pleaded.
Yumiko had picked herself up from the floor, crawling her arms up the wall, now standing tall in the moon’s silver gaze. In her fist she still clutched that small black stone.
“You won’t take them from me!” He yelled, his eyes burning with the rage of a cornered silverback. His lungs filled with a huge breath, his chest growing twice its size. Then, in an instant, the air from his lungs burst forth in a single gasp. His chest collapsed, as if struck hard in the gut, his lungs emptying in the impact. His eyes rolled back, white, and his body went limp on the floor.
Yumiko’s vision filled with a flash of white. Her head screamed and, in the dizziness, she collapsed to her knees.
“You won’t take them from me!” she shouted to an empty room.
VII.
Her sight began to return. The moon hung high in the sky, its pale uncaring face watching still. The migraine, too, quickly passed, but in its place sprung forth sudden thoughts. Fears. She felt the need to flee, to run, to escape – to get far away and never return. But Megumi… and Anzu… They need me.
She looked about her darkened surroundings. She glanced down at Ushi, unconscious but clinging to shallow breaths. She looked at her hands. She still held that small black stone – a tiny bead that could catch the demon. She reared back her arm and hurled the stone over the balcony, far into the inky sky. It clattered along the cobbled street. It’s fine. I have more. Shit – she has more.
She glanced down at her wrist. Several more stones were looped on a thread. She grabbed it with her other hand, but as she pulled, her arm froze. Her fingers clutched the thread, but they were locked in place – split by some internal war of thought.
“Stop this,” she shouted at her wrist.
She’s fighting back? The fear sprung in the back of her mind.
“Let me go!” She pleaded to the empty room. Her arm contorted, twisting at the shoulder and elbow, as if wriggling to be let free.
“You’re a monster, Ushi. A plague on these isles.” The words spat as venom from her mouth.
“I was born like this. What do you expect me to do? Just die?”
“Yes. Die.”
She felt rage boil within her, but it came as two waves, two flavours. Her foot raised high then kicked hard into the ground, driving the clinging glass further into the sole of her foot. Sharp pain shot up through her legs and wracked her head, tumbling from her mouth as a guttural cry. Her arm was released from its tension and snapped the thread around her wrist. The stones fell to the floor and rolled across the carpet. Her breath was heavy and irregular.
“How many like me have you killed?”
“You can’t kill what’s already died.”
“How many? How many families destroyed?”
Strange memories flooded her mind. She thought of Megumi. How she smiled, her cheeks pushed round as a plum. How she slept, so unflatteringly drooling, but so pristinely imperfect. She thought of Anzu. Her little giggles, abruptly stopped by a snort, while being carried around and swung in circles – No. Get out of my head.
“You had your life, Ushi. Accept it.”
“I was eighteen. Eighteen when I fell ill. They said I’d be fine, but I knew the truth. I knew deep down. I had to escape. I had no choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
The black stones littered the carpet around her. She stepped forward, leaning to grasp at one, but her limbs disobeyed. Her knees locked and she fell to the floor, landing on her palms as both souls saved from the fall. Her body convulsed, limbs twisting as two minds battled for control. Her legs struggled for footholds but disagreed on where. Her arm sprung forward, scrambling to clutch the moon-glittered stones. But immediately it would miss, crashing into the wall instead, crunching bare knuckles. She cursed in pain. But in that moment, she noticed it. In that momentary lapse, when the pain ignited her mind, her limbs went loose. The tension across her calves, her thighs, her fingers, all waned for a mere moment as both souls recoiled in agony.
She bore down her foot into the ground again, painting streaks of red across the floor. Sparking white pain bolted up her legs and she yelled again. Or rather a scream resounded in her skull but she persevered. In that moment of lapse she clutched a stone into her fist and pulled it hard into her chest. She punched her sternum with such a force it expelled the air from her lungs. She felt her heart drop, as if it had stopped, a horrible lurch like it was being pulled from her chest. No! The thought sparked, though quiet and distant. But it began to grow louder again. The air refilled her lungs and her heart was pushing back into her chest. No no no. The thought in her head grew louder still.
She extended her arm and punched her sternum again. Once. Twice. Like a medic restarting the heart of a corpse. Each time it winded her, sucking the air from her throat and filling it with nausea. A third time she struck herself and it filled the room with a resounding crack of ribs. Agony burst through her chest, as if a barbed spear had impaled her through the heart. But now the spear was pulling out, her heart along with it, and a hollowness was overwhelming her. Her mind twisted, held aloft in the room, somersaulting over and over itself within her own head. Darkness strangled her vision from the corners until all was black.
VIII.
“And…” the old lady croaked, hunched over in a terrible arc. “Will Ushi be okay?”
“He’ll survive,” Yumiko said. “It will take time, but he will recover.”
She accepted a wet hand-towel from Ms Oba and pressed it against the base of her foot. The thin shards of glass had been extracted from her sole, now laying in a neat line beside her. She winced as the towel stung her wounds, darkening red as it soaked.
“How… did it happen?”
“A demon. It had possessed him. Briefly. It poisoned his mind.”
“A… demon? Where… did it come from?”
“I’m unsure. But it’s gone now.”
Ms Oba held a cup in her lap. Steam coiled from its surface. Yumiko, still focused on her own treatment, spoke,
“Have you met a demon before, Ms. Oba?”
“No… I don’t think I have.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t know.”
“I… suppose not. I have heard the stories though.”
“Many tellers spin stories, Ms. Oba,” Yumiko sighed. “Whether for fear or for sympathy. You can’t believe all you hear.”
“I… suppose. But… in each story there is some truth…”
“I’ve never witnessed a demon become a Tiger or a Fox.”
In truth she had never understood that old fable, when two demons, a Tiger and a Fox, each tried to enter a shrine of the Moon. Certainly, it had some truth – the demon’s attempts were deceitful and violent, under the guises of a warlord and a prince. But the tale’s end, she never quite understood. When the Fox bears gifts, open and honestly, it is welcomed with kindness. It didn’t make sense. How could a shrine maiden trust a demon? How could she be so naïve to let it in? She had always supposed it to be a simple moral, a shallow message about respect and honesty for young children – the Fox was welcomed and the Tiger was shunned.
“And… Ichiro? Will he recover?”
Yumiko let the question steep for a while in the room. As she moved the towel across her skin, wiping away both fresh and dried blood alike, black stones clattered together in her sleeve pocket.
“No. Nothing can be done for him.”
Ms. Oba’s wrinkled face slumped with a sigh.
“He was always such a kind man…”
“Perhaps you didn’t know him as well as you thought.”
“Perhaps… I never did like that boy when Megumi first met him… however many years ago… What a selfish man… I thought.” Then she smiled, just for herself, a memory playing behind her old eyes. “But he became such a good man… a caring man… always willing to help… to a fault at times! … Fate can be cruel…”
Yumiko squeezed the towel into a small bucket, the clear water becoming cloudy and dark.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Ms Oba.”
Mirrortide 
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