Stephen Marshall. Writer, illustrator, layabout. Find him on Amazon, maybe. He has paperback and kindle books listed there. He also writes Supernatural Romance under the name S.C. Foster (because his fiancee pushed him to do so). He seems to have a knack for the Romance genre, much to his chagrin. Having pursued Children's literature he is particularly proud of his Children's novel series "Lost And Found", which begins with "Chloe Among The Clover", continues recently with "Stormy Within The Strawberry Patch" and may, in some future potentiality, culminate with "Candice Through The Picket Fence". These are novels for children (including his insistent nephew), but they are also written for adults who are children at heart. His short story collection, "The Eldritch Diaries", centers primarily upon Cosmic Horror and Body Horror, combining Lovecraft's mythos with the motifs of Sigmund Freud. His largest poetry collection, "Broken Crown Kings", contains over two hundred poems and two short novellas concerning the fleeting nature of the world and Man's place within it. Recently he has published a smaller book of poetry concerning Kentucky, Moonshine, and Ghosts called "Moonshine And Spirit Chasers". A much larger collection, entitled '"Nevermore" 99 Rhymes For $0.99' is also available.
A bulbous throat of thunder, cannibal maw of the bog, living half its life under the duckweed with eyes agog, squirming out from clustered eggs with tail to race, feed, and grow, hopping on humanoid legs to hunt and breed and bellow.
Ever fixed, mother and child, lasting longer than the old limestone carved to honor sneering gods styled with grim-faced features, each god now strewn amidst ruins, the grass grown wild with disrespect, and by Nature sewn to temper pride to something mild, to hush the god and his feckless groan and all others likewise beguiled with conceits beyond flesh, blood, and bone amongst the countless ruins piled, whereas mother and child stand alone— through eons, mother holding child, strong without army or wealth or throne.
I am not accustomed to the guttural thunder of bullfrogs at night. It vibrates the eardrums as if a washerwoman, zealous in her trade, beats at her mistress’s laundry. And yet the guests and the hosts seem unperturbed by it as they converse indoors. Their chatter is like crickets beneath the ambience of the swamp. I stand on the upper floor’s porch, framed by the colonnade that plunges like an orchard of cypresses, and attempt to breathe freely the evening air after too many hours spent among people with whom I must either compete or endear myself. Looking out across the estate grounds, I see a scene from another world. Moonlight glows among the heavy gossamers of Spanish moss hanging from the gigantic oaks. The contorted limbs seem ready to rouse for midnight reveries. I wish for bed, and smack a mosquito near my ear. Presumptuous pest!
“Oh, but you see that I am the namesake of your dear Louisiana,” says Mr. Louis Beaux from within. “And so I feel as if I have come home at long last.”
The fluff-frilled French dandy laughs like a loon. He has used that tired joke so often since arriving at the Sugar Palace that it repeats in my head whenever the name of this American state is mentioned.
“You may share a name with its benefactor,” Mr. William Lutz says, “but my family has blended its sweat and blood with this swamp for decades, taming it with great industry. Louisiana is as much of my blood as we are of it. Just as the Doucette family is of this great land. We are at home here like no one else.”
“Just so, my dear young man,” Mr. Doucette says in his breathless, rousing manner. His bulky figure resides in a leather chair near the French doors. He has spilled his glass of wine more than once tonight, nodding toward sleep.
“My family has cultivated sugar cane for a century on our island,” Mr. Beaux says in his nasally accent. “What are your mainland plantations to ours? Hm? We thrive in the middle of the barbaric seas, striving where no one dared to strive before. With the wild sea crashing all around us.”
“It is much easier on an island,” Mr. Lutz says, “when you do not have to worry about Indian raids and Abolitionists threatening your way of life.”
“We have pirates to think of, you know!” Mr. Beaux exclaims.
“As do we,” Mr. Lutz says with the self-satisfaction of a checkmate.
“It tests a man’s mettle, such things,” General Davis interjects. “And I have engaged such enemies directly. There is no baptism like the baptism of war. It scalds sweetly, purifying the man of all the weaker elements in his constitution. Vestiges of childhood, and the naive ideals of adolescence, are burned clean until only a man remains. Stern and vigilant and unwavering.”
“Ah, but each of you miss the matter at hand,” Miss Lucille Doucette chimes. “The matter at my hand. That is to say, which of you is worthy of my hand? That is more than a mere question of name and family lineage and manhood. Otherwise why would I have invited so many remarkable gentlemen into Le Palais Du Sucre?”
I cannot help but sigh. I am a stranger in a strange land. Louisiana is a strange place for a man from Derbyshire. The sights and the sounds and the people are a strange witch’s brew of everyday occurrence. Were I taken to Faerie I would not experience such a crucible of cultural delineation. Louisiana is otherworldly, even if its people are familiar.
“One of you could always seek my hand in marriage,” Miss Arabella chimes in enviously.
Miss Lucille, laughs contemptuously. “You are too young for such considerations, and you are not the heiress, little sister. Why would any of these fine, distinguished gentlemen be interested in attaching himself to you? They might as well attach themselves to one of our housemaids, for all it entails.”
I can hear the sharp, angry footsteps of Miss Arabella as she exits the parlour.
“Where did Lord Machen go to?” Miss Lucille says, unperturbed by her sister’s departure. “He is always slipping away elsewhere. I am beginning to believe he has given up the chase.”
“He was never in the running, my dear Lucy,” Mr. Lutz says.
“Indeed,” General Davis concurs. “To marry a foreigner would be to betray your breeding and your country.”
“To the contrary,” Mr. Beaux says, testily. “An attachment to the right foreigner would improve your breeding, as it improved your country during its infancy. Without the French, monsieur, your country would not exist, but would still be chained to the throne.”
Politics. I despise politics. Nor am I beholden to any keen feelings of allegiance to my own country. To press the point, I always refer to England as Albion to distinguish the mythical as more integral to my identity than the reality. Perhaps it is a bit of weakness and cowardice, this disavowal—and especially as it happens that I am of an old line of noblemen—but it is in keeping with my unmoored life and the ache of my wanderlust.
“Do you wish me to make an allowance for one foreigner over another?” General Davis says angrily. “All of you compromise the integrity of our sovereignty with your presence. You should be expelled with all of the other undesirables in our midst.”
“General, do not make war,” Miss Lucille admonishes him. “It is not becoming of you in present circumstances.”
“Everything in its due time,” agrees Mr. Lutz, his voice nearer to Miss Lucille’s than the others. Doubtlessly he is sitting next to her on the sofa. An enviable position of privilege for some. “Love was never won with slings and arrows.”
“Yes, yes, but where is Lord Machen?” Lady Lucille says. “I am of a mind to send Caroline to fetch him.” She paces across the room, calling for Caroline. “Caroline! Caroline, come here at once, girl!”
Caroline is not a girl, but a woman of at least twenty. Being a slave, she comes promptly at her mistress’s command.
“Yes, Miss Doucette,” Caroline says timidly.
“Do you know the whereabouts of Lord Machen?” Miss Lucille says.
“No, Miss Doucette.”
“Then find him,” Miss Lucille says, “and escort him here. He must have gotten himself lost again.”
I hear snickering from the other suitors.
“But what…what if he has retired to bed?” Caroline asks.
“Then let him rest, obviously,” Miss Lucille says impatiently. “And report to me of his condition.”
Poor Caroline exits the parlour, led by the candle in her hand. I follow alongside her from the porch to my room, watching her through the many French windows that line the walls of the Sugar Palace. She is a rather lovely young woman—dusky of face and gloomy of feeling—and entirely unfortunate in her circumstances, much like most Negroes in Louisiana. I slip into the house through a pair of French doors. Though it is not my aim, I startle her as I emerge from a corridor heavily veiled in shadows.
“Lord Machen!” she exclaims, a hand going to her aproned breast.
“I apologize, Miss Caroline,” I say, bowing. “I did not mean to give you a start.”
“The mistress desires your presence,” she says, lowering her hand. “She is concerned about your well-being.”
“You are ever the tactful diplomat,” I say. “And, as such, must tender apologies for my regrettable absence. I am not inclined toward company tonight. I have yet to recover my strength after the long journey here.”
“I see,” she says, lowering her eyes. They are dark pools of glumness in the gloom of the corridor.
“Simply tell Miss Doucette that I have retired to bed,” I say. “No need to complicate the explanation.”
“Of course, sir,” she says. She turns to leave, but pauses. “Do you need anything, Lord Machen?” There is genuine concern in her tone. “For your fatigue?”
“No,” I say. “Yes. Perhaps. What would you suggest to raise the spirits of a man fatigued by life itself?”
“Scripture, sir,” she says with a humble smile. “Or ginger tea.”
“One or the other in its own circumstance, I am sure,” I say. “But the ginger tea is most appealing presently. Do you mind having someone make it for me…or is the hour too late? I would rather not trouble anyone.”
Caroline smiles. “It is no trouble, sir. I will see it done myself.”
“It is not too much bother?”
“No, sir. I enjoy the smell of boiling ginger. And I always brew some for myself before I go to bed.”
“An excellent habit, I am sure,” I say. “Excellent for one’s health.”
“Yes, sir,” she says.
We stand a moment together in the corridor, regarding one another. It is so much easier for me to speak to servants in a household than to conceited lords and ladies. The servants of my father’s household were always more open with me, and I with them, whereas speaking to my parents was as approaching a heathen idol and attempting to beseech empathy in the cold stone of their graven eyes.
“I will bring the tea to your bedchamber, sir,” Caroline says. She disappears down the corridor, haloed by her candle.
Left to myself, I navigate the hallways as best as I may. The Sugar Palace is large and mostly unoccupied at any given time. With some effort I return through the shadows to the room allotted to me by my hosts. It is a rather vast room, imposing with its ornate interior, the florid wallpaper, and the oak wainscoting. The furnishings, like their owners, are overly concerned with being impressive. Their arabesques and lion’s paws and such are things given to the loudest of grandstanding silence. I come from a long line of nobleman, but never have I seen a nobleman given to such puffed-up pretenses. There is a sideboard, a wardrobe, an Ottoman, a sofa, an escritoire—which I make as much use of as possible, though not in correspondence—and there is a four-poster bed. The latter is bedecked with silken curtains and very comfortable blankets. The pillows would satisfy a sultan. There are a total of four windows in the large room, and a pair of French doors, all opening to the first floor porch, or, as it is known in American circles, the second-floor porch. I can see the colonnade, the railings, and the moonlit grounds beyond it, though everything becomes lost in the dark swampland at a distance.
I stand by the window nearest to the bed and lose myself in the faraway moon. It seems closer to me now than Derbyshire. The sentiment inspired by such a notion is ambivalent at best. I do not miss my mother or father, nor the troubles of the Machen estate. Yet, I do long for the Derbyshire hills, the vales, the rivers, and the woodlands. Simultaneously, I am in America, and the whole of America lay before me like a great mystery yet to be explored. On the other hand, I am bound to this place, at least for a time, and must honour the request of my parents, even though I am quite aware of the futility of such a pursuit. Of the men herein gathered, I am least probable to be chosen as Miss Lucille’s betrothed. Nor would I wish to be. It is so much bother and bumbling humbug.
A knock at the door. Or is it a kick?
“Come in,” I say.
“I cannot, sir,” Caroline says patiently. “My hands are both occupied.”
I hasten to the door. Opening it, I find Caroline with her candle in one hand and a tray of tea with biscuits in the other. I take the tray and bring it to the small round table near the sofa. The porcelain cup billows steam with a spicy ginger fragrance.
“This smells lovely,” I say. “Thank you, Caroline.”
“You are welcome, sir,” Caroline says. She remains at the threshold, haloed by her candlelight.
“Is there something else, Caroline?” I ask.
She shifts uncomfortably. “Lord Machen, do you hear the…song of the swamp?”
“Very much so,” I say, lifting the cup of tea and blowing on it. “Especially when I am not at the mercy of certain social circles and their raucous prattle.”
“I have lived here my whole life, Lord Machen,” she says. “And I have never heard it so loud before.”
“You may call me Bram, if you like,” I say. “Insomuch as when the others cannot hear. I do not scorn familiarity, but I would prefer you not be reprimanded. I know all society to be a comedy of manners.”
“Sir,” she says more sharply. There is a long silence, and she sighs. “I speak of the swamp because I have lived here my whole life. Twenty-two years, sir, and that is enough to know something of its song. And its song is louder than I have ever heard it.”
I sip at my tea. It is still too hot and I burn my lip. “What does it mean?”
“My grandmother used to say to fear the swamp when it is loud,” she says. “And fear it more when it is silent. The swamp has been silent at times, and louder than ever at other times. It is strange. The spirits…”
She trails into silence. I do not press her. I stare out the window, the tea’s steam like a ghost before my eyes. The swamp sounds like distant thunder rumbling beyond the horizon.
“Perhaps a storm is blowing in,” I say. “It may be here within days. Or hours. I am no judge of such things. I’ve no experience to inform me.”
“Just be mindful of the swamp’s song,” she says.
The door creaks as Caroline closes it. I can see her figure outlined by the halo of the candlelight, all reflected in the window.
“Good night, Lord Machen,” she says. “I hope you feel better come tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Caroline. And thank you for the tea.”
The door shuts and I stand at the window, sipping my tea. It is hot—the tea and the night—yet I feel a chill in the root of my spine. The “song” of the swamp unsettles me. I am not a local, and my ignorance of Louisiana is vast, but my instincts counsel me with caution. I am a stranger in a strange land, and it grows in strangeness with familiarity; it does not diminish. I baulk to think what intimacy with this place should entail, for it will likely be ever as a groom marrying an otherworldly bride. Is this place the bride I seek? Or is it a fairy hag seeking to ensorcel me? Perhaps she is a Lady Ragnell in disguise as the Loathly Lady. Or the Loathly Lady in disguise of the Lady Ragnell. Which is it? A mixture of both, most likely, if I judge by the lady who invited me here to court her alongside other suitors.
Perhaps I will willfully wander into th swamp by the end of it all, if only to escape the conceit of the Sugar Palace. How it vexes me!
(This is the first chapter in a novel I am currently writing set in Louisiana during the Antebellum period. It is a Southern Gothic Horror story with Lovecraftian elements and a Saki-esque sense of humor paired with what I would aspire to be Austenian elements for the sake of Drama, as well as a historical framework for the sake of authenticity. It is, in other words, a hodge-podge of all the things I enjoy in literature. Since I am often bed-bound throughout the day, after the car wreck, I might as well use my time to cultivate the fruits of my imagination. Whether it yields a bountiful crop remains to be seen. I have had this idea percolating for a while now in my head, but only now have had the time to pursue its realization.)
The scale of the moon carp gleamed in Katashi’s palm, flashing like polished porcelain, or perhaps lacquered bone. He returned it to the pouch hidden beneath his breastplate. The bamboo breastplate was charred and scarred, haunted by the battle from which Katashi had forsaken his sworn service to the Tanaka clan. It had been a sardonic retreat into the woods. He fancied the idea of finding another clan to serve, such as in Kyoto, but halfway there abandoned the plan. Having no home, he made a home for himself here, in this valley beneath the howling mountains, and earning his life as a bandit with a dull blade and sharp threats. The valley was an ideal place to stake the tearaway remainder of his life. Cutting through its wooded beauty was an important road that led to Kyoto and, so, was frequented by both riffraff and riches. There was a river that flowed like a sacred serpent nearby, replete with fish and frogs and such, and the woods was an assembly of the loveliest trees. Cedars, pines, maples, sakuras, dogwoods, plum, cherry trees. There were momiji trees with their leaves like a fan of sharp spear blades, and mountain ash, and the mighty oaks, their strange limbs frozen in kabuki dances. Katashi cherished trees, and the lovely landscape. He may not have adhered to Bushido now, but the appreciation of beauty still burned warmly in his breast long after all other things—like etiquette and Zen Buddhism—had extinguished. Sometimes, too, when the moon rode the clouds high like a princess in a palanquin, Katashi composed poetry in his head in celebration of the beauty of that hour. Sometimes the poetry visited him in the hot noon when he cooled himself in the shade of the woods, or drank water from the pools that spooled together from the waters of the mountains looming over that valley. And yet, Katashi was not happy. He could be content, and even feel vacant of want, but such moments ebbed away as the flames and smoke rose again in his memories, reminding him of the Tanaka estate collapsing to ash. Whereas he used to meditate, now he could never sit still long enough to find inner peace. Rather, the memories assailed him on raven wings, like Tengu hellbent on mischief. In many ways, Katashi was a bitter man, and tasted much of bitter fruit. His life under the Tanaka clan had been a sweet fruit of privilege fed on the bitter duty of blood. This was why he had always enjoyed persimmons, whether ripe or unripened. The bitter and the sweet had their place. Green tea, too, was what he enjoyed, and the bitterer the better. It awakened his senses and concentrated his mind before battle. And after each battle in service to his lord, when he had often returned to the Tanaka estate, he was pleased to eat sweet rice and candies. He had taken pleasure in the indulgence of life in all of its diametric opposites. Nowadays Katashi gathered and dried his own tea, and fished, and stole sacks of rice as he needed them during the Winter. He had few possessions, but they were enough to sustain him: his dull blade, a fishing spear, a tea cup, and a pot with which he cooked his fish, his rice, and brewed his tea. And then came a day of yet greater change for the ronin. It had begun like all others. He rose, brewed tea, speared his breakfast in the river, cooked, ate, and then surveyed the valley road for passing spoils. He soon found them. It was a group of monks, three in all, escorted by two samurai. The three monks surely had coins for their journey. The eldest monk looked especially old and presumptuous. The middle-aged monk looked chubby about his jowls and had a protuberant belly, meaning he ate well. The third monk was a young man; slender and almost feminine of feature. Surely, Katashi thought, these monks had coins. Katashi then studied the two samurai closely, wondering which one he should dispatch first. Before he could come to a decision, however, a volley of roars rose and a group of bandits besieged the small group. They must have been new to the area, for Katashi had never seen them before. They wore bits of stolen armor here and there, used axes and kamas and secondhand blades. One used a fishing spear. Katashi watched grimly as the samurai were overwhelmed. He would have, at least, killed them honorably, not dishonorably ambush them with lackeys to assist. Face to face duels were his way. This, on the other hand, was a shameful display. Even so, one of the samurai managed to deflect the ambush and maim one of his attackers before he was cut down. He died with hatred etched on his face, and without a yelp of protest. Katashi would have felt honored to kill such a man, but the bandits did not indulge such thoughts. The moment the samurai fell the bandits fell upon him like dogs, arguing over who would claim his blade. There were five bandits in all, but the fifth was weeping on the ground, his lifeblood spilling out of his severed arm. The monks huddled together, but were untouched. Either they had nothing the bandits desired or the bandits feared hurting holy men. Katashi never feared hurting holy men, nor killing them. They were often possessed of more wealth than their escorts. At length, the four bandits had taken what they desired and fled into the forest. The fifth remained on the road, coiled like an infant and clutching the severed stump of his arm. The youngest monk attempted to tend to his wound, but the other two monks upbraided him. “Let the dog die,” the eldest monk said. He wore a white robe and his eyes were hard, cold, and black like onyx. “Karma dictates his fate, and his fate will see him as a dog in the next life, or something worse.” “But master…” the young monk said. The other monk spoke up, his voice authoritative. “Do not question your better. You must remember how fortunate you are to have been taken upon this journey.” This monk wore a black robe and was of an age between the eldest and the youngest. “Let the dead lie, and let the dying follow suit.” The youngest monk rose reluctantly and went from the bandit to the two dead samurai. The latter two had been stripped and bled freely from their fateful wounds upon the road. “Do not touch the dead,” the black-robed monk commanded. “You will taint yourself with the corruption of death, and so doom us all. We must return to Kyoto and acquire another escort.” “But the mountain…” the young monk protested. “It will remain until we return,” the middle-aged monk said. “We must not dare the mountains unprotected. A hasty foot leads to a foolish fall. And youthful feet are hastiest of all.” “But the demons will kill again,” the young monk said. “We have waited too long to protect the people of the village. Too many have died, and many more will die tonight.” The two older monks reddened at the young monk’s words, scowls drawn on both men’s faces. “We could not address this problem until now,” the middle-aged monk growled. “Lord Noteru had no Samurai to spare, as you know, and now we must report to him the deaths of two of his loyal men. He will not be pleased and will likely not be urgent in sparing more men in our mission.” It was then that Katashi emerged from the shadows of the woods. “The boy has bamboo for a spine,” he said, “or perhaps bamboo for his head.” Katashi was pleased by the surprise on the monks’ faces. The two older monks stepped back as the imposing ronin approached. The young monk stood defiant. Katashi looked him up and down, grinning. “Perhaps both, though he looks more a woman than the last I rutted upon.” “What do you want?” the eldest monk asked. “Did your gang not spill enough blood already?” “I do not belong to them,” Katashi said, a grim smile upon his face. “If I did belong to them I would have cut them down rather than see them fight an outnumbered force so cowardly.” “A murderer with principle!,” scoffed the middle-aged monk. “What is a Samurai except that?” Katashi said. “Though also with a master, and since I have none, I am simply a ronin.” “What do you want?” the eldest monk demanded. “Our escort has been slain and stripped of all possessions. There is nothing we can offer you. We are holy men. We have no need of earthly possessions, and so no wealth to tempt your wickedness.” Katashi laughed mirthlessly. “The thick robes of holy men have always concealed secret wealth, and secret wickedness. I ask only for wealth, however. Coins. Now.” The two elder monks exchanged irritated glances, then disdainful glances toward the corpses of their guards. The eldest monk nodded to the middle-aged monk. The middle-aged monk withdrew a pouch from his robe. It jingled. “You profane man,” the middle-aged monk complained. “It will buy you only your way into the next life as a worm.” The monk handed the pouch of coins to Katashi. “A peaceful, needful life,” Katashi said. He put the pouch within his breastplate, beside the pouch with the white koi scale. “Tilling the earth and helping a fisherman’s hook to feed his family. Much more needful a life than that of a monk, I should think.” “You despicable blasphemer!” the middle-aged monk ejaculated. “You do not deserve that gold!” “Or perhaps I could devise a need of you, after all,” Katashi said. He drew his katana. “My blade is dull and wants testing. Perhaps I should test its sharpness with a holy man’s neck.” His eyes went from one monk to the other. “But which one?” His eyes fell upon the eldest monk. “The oldest? His is sure to be tough enough to test a blade. His neck is so corded with age, like a tree’s trunk.” He looked at the middle-aged monk. “Or perhaps the fat one would be a better test of a blade. His neck is thickly swollen and surely as difficult to severe as a hog’s head from its body.” The middle-aged monk backed away, as did the eldest monk. Katashi turned toward the young monk. “Your neck is young and strong,” he said. “It might prove to be the best test of all. What do you say to that?” “If you must test your sword,” the young monk said, “then please do so. But please do so after we have cleansed this mountain of corruption.” Katashi was taken aback, but did not let on. “You care very much about this mountain,” he said. “It is not just the mountain,” the young monk said. “It is a matter of the villages near here. This is crucial for saving lives and easing suffering.” “The mountain must wait,” the eldest monk said. This caused the youngest monk more upset than anything the ronin had said to him thus far. “But master! We must purify the mountain!” “We cannot even defend ourselves against this wind-blown ruffian,” the middle-aged monk said, turning on the young monk. “How are we to defend ourselves against what we will face in the mountains?” Katashi sheathed his blade, and laughed. “Why would you not simply trust in the Buddha to see you safely to your destination? Why would you need armed warriors for escorts? Or is it that Buddha is a matter of your occupation rather than your belief?” “We do believe in Buddha,” the middle-aged monk retorted testily. “But not everyone believes, and not everyone who believes behaves as if they believe.” Katashi laughed again. “Very true. Just so, I believe in Buddha, and I carry a blade with me, for Buddha does nothing for us. He is too lost in the bliss of his own Satori to care for us or anyone except himself.” The monks gasped. The middle-aged monk glowered and spoke with scorn. “You are an endless well of blasphemies!” he snapped. “Your soul is lost! You will never break the cycle! Instead, you will descend into blood-madness and become an Oni!” Katashi nodded gravely. “Perhaps I have descended and become an Oni already. I have killed hundreds, you know, and the Buddha never interfered on their behalf. Nor on my own. Rivers of blood have flowed and, in the center of it, like an unfeeling stone, the Buddha has slept, indifferent to the world.” The two older monks exchanged looks again. “It is time to depart,” the eldest monk said, folding his arms and turning away. “Come. Leave the wretch to his fate.” “Do as you please,” Katashi said. “Your coin has bought you your way. Tread your path as you wish, but know the Buddha does not care.” The two monks began to walk down the valley path. The youngest monk did not follow. “I will not forsake the mountain,” the young monk said. “I will continue on alone.” “It will be dark soon,” the elder monk said. “And you have no protection.” “I have faith in the Buddha,” the young monk said. “I need nought else.” Katashi should have laughed, and yet he did not. There was a steel-edged resolve in the young man’s tone that reminded Katashi of the battlefield. And while he may have dismissed the Samurai code and the Eightfold Path of the Buddha, he did not dismiss the courage of a man, especially combating that devil known as Circumstance. “A fool, then,” the middle-aged monk said. “I will dedicate a Lotus Sutra to you in the hope that you will be reborn into a fairer realm. Farewell.” The two monks went their way. The young monk went his way, through a torii gate and up a long-forsaken mountain path. Katashi, curious, followed the monk from within the woods. He was in want of diversion, and would find it.
It was not long before the sun set and the shadows stretched, darkened, and pooled as a lake in the valley. Despite the darkness of the woods, the monk did not falter, but continued up the mountain at the same determined pace as when there was still sunlight with which to see. To Katashi’s surprise, there were lights along the path up the mountain— burning blue lights here and there among the trees and along the path. Voices whispered and murmured as the monk approached. Katashi heard them, too, coming from behind him, beside him, above him, below him. He was used to opponents of flesh and blood, not apparitions which a blade could not wound. Yet, he would not cower so long as the monk did not. The monk pulled up his orange sleeves, exposing his hands. Within them he clutched prayer beads. As the burning blue flames encircled him, he bowed his head and raised his hands, entwined by the beads. Within the angry convergence of the blue light the monk prayed. The flames drew nearer, as if to engulf him, but he did not mind them, continuing with his prayer. The flames began to dwindle, and their voices became desperate. They cried and they wailed. They vowed revenge, and enumerated their sorrows. Nonetheless, the monk prayed, his voice a steady lullaby in the otherworldly light. By and by, they diminished, becoming so small that they were like fireflies among the trees, and then faraway stars, and then glinting embers. At last, the flames dissipated entirely, leaving only the monk on the path, and Katashi in the woods. The monk turned and looked directly where Katashi concealed himself behind an ash tree. The ronin stepped forward “Your blade will not always protect you,” the monk said. “Often it will harm you, even if it never spills one drop of your blood.” Katashi stepped forward onto the mountain path. “What were those flames?” “Onibi,” the monk said. “Lost spirits. The victims, I believe, of the evil that lurks atop these mountains.” “Where did they go? Did you destroy them?” “I sent them forth from their suffering,” the monk said. “I hope they find peace in the next life to come.” Katashi snorted. “Doubtful. There is no peace in this life or any other. They go from one storm to another, and there is no refuge.” The monk withdrew his hands and prayer beads into his sleeves, then crossed his arms. “Why do you shadow me?” he asked. Katashi ignored the question. “I am surprised you could sense me. I am silent as a fox when I desire to be.” “Your walk is not of the woods, however much you wish it to be. You are a man too much in disharmony with himself to ever be in harmony with the world.” Katashi frowned. “You speak with high-hand when you wish. Were you born of a noble family?” “No,” the monk said, continuing his uphill walk. “I was born of a humble fisherman.” “And yet the Buddha was a prince,” Katashi said, following the monk with an easy gait. “He knew nothing of suffering, yet is supposed to somehow teach us how to overcome it. Not all of us have castles and kings to keep us sheltered from suffering.” “You wish to antagonize me,” the monk said. “But you only succeed in revealing the extent of your own suffering.” Katashi grinned mirthlessly. “I have not suffered more than most, except, perhaps, those whom I met and slew upon the battlefield.” “You relish in death,” the monk said. He shook his bald head with pity. “Just so, I will pray for you, invoking the Buddha to guide your soul to its inmost peace.” “There is no peace hidden there, either,” Katashi said, his tone harder now. “No more than there is peace in the inmost of a storm. Lightning crashes all around. The winds howl. The rains fall. The sky grows dark and the people tremble in their splintered homes. Life is dynamic. Only after death is peace attained, and even then it is not stillness, but decay as Life again eats away restlessly upon the ruined flesh.” “You do not respect the Buddha’s teachings,” the monk said. “Nor the teachers of those teachings,” Katashi said grimly. “If you only knew how many holy men I have slain, you would quiver in your robe.” “Why have you not slain me?” the monk asked. “Why did you not slay my brothers? You could have easily done so.” “I did not slay your brothers because they will return with more coins,” Katashi said. “And you…well, I did not slay you because I judged it more entertaining to witness your failure upon the mountains than to kill you outright. Or, perhaps, I may just test my dull blade on your neck after all.” The flapping of large wings and the strange cawing laughter of a crow interrupted their conversation. They looked to the treetops and saw a winged shadow pass over the pale moon. Its laughter echoed within the woods; at one moment behind them and another moment ahead; to the left, then to the right. The creature’s laughter was as coarse as an old crone’s cackle. At length, a branch shook overhead and creaked beneath the weight of the figure. “What a pair to see!” the coarse-throated voice crackled. “A monk and a ronin. What fun to be had! I can scarcely decide what to do first! Should I eat the monk’s eyes and replace them with his prayer beads? Or should I remove the ronin’s genitals and place them in his mouth?” Katashi unsheathed his sword and pointed it toward the shadowy figure. The dull blade gleamed white in the moonlight. His voice rang out in challenge. “Come and face me first, you presumptuous creature! I will cut your grandstanding pride down as a sickle the sapling!” The branch shook and a great gust of wind rushed downward with the winged figure that landed before them. “Face me, mortal,” the creature said, “and we shall test how well that dull blade cuts.” The winged creature wore a black robe and a black raven’s hat, like a priest, but had a long nose extending out from a red face. In one clawed hand it held a black-bladed katana; in the other it held a scroll such as would adorn a temple. Written upon it was the Lotus Sutra, but distorted. Perverse. Katashi stepped forward as the Tengu grinned. The monk interceded. “Tengu,” the monk said. He held up his hands with the prayer beads entwined. “You must not face him. You will not win. Tengu were the demons that taught the warrior arts to Man.” “I can fight him,” Katashi said, “and I will.” “You will die,” the monk said. “Then it shall be a glorious death,” Katashi said. “And a glorious feast, too,” the Tengu said, laughing like a crow. “As are all the feasts provided us by the pride of Man.” The creature slipped its blasphemous scroll into its black robe and held the handle of his katana with both clawed hands. Katashi dropped his sword into a low stance. The moon disappeared behind a wayward cloud, plunging the mountainside into a sea of darkness. Blade crashed against blade, and the darkness was flecked with flashes of light. Three clangorous strikes sounded and then the moon reappeared. Katashi and the Tengu had switched places. The young monk stumbled back in surprise, the Tengu only a few paces away from him. “Clever creature,” Katashi said, “to use the darkness against men. But you fail to understand. I am no mere man, for you face a demon also.” “Your boasts are most unseemly,” the Tengu said. The laughter was gone from his coarse corvine voice. Now remained only dreadful menace. “Luck struck thrice for you, and so is gone. Now only your dull blade and your skill remain, and what paltry things to safeguard your life! It will tatter like the flimsy threads of a spider’s web.” “So says the firefly,” Katashi said, readying his blade in the high position. The moon gleamed, reflecting off of his blade to illuminate more clearly the dark eyes near which the blade arced. The two warriors faced each other silently for a long time, as if waiting for another cloud to blind the moon. When the cloud came, at last, like a raven’s wing, there came five shrieking strikes of blade on blade, and sparks that seemed to alight upon the leaves of trees and burn a moment before fading once again into the uniform darkness. The moon emerged again, and with her emergence came a gasp from the monk. Katashi stood beside him, and so, too, did the Tengu. But the Tengu remained standing only because Katashi’s blade held him up. The Tengu’s blade dropped to the ground and the Tengu slumped backwards, toward his crumpling wings. The Tengu’s words were mingled with blood and pain. “Bested by a lowly man. What a pitiful thing.” “No,” Katashi said, withdrawing his blade and letting the creature collapse upon the ground. “Bested by a superior demon.” The Tengu dissipated into a flurry of black feathers, all of which were subsumed into the shadows. Only the demon’s sword remained. Katashi stooped and picked it up. Surveying its black blade for a moment, he discarded his old, dull sword and claimed the new black blade in its place. He sheathed it and was pleased by the shriek of its blade in the scabbard. “A demon’s blade befitting a demon,” he said. “You may yet be a demon,” the monk said, reproachfully. “But I will thank you all the same.” Katashi faced the monk with a sardonic frown on his face. “If the Shogun wished to exterminate these demons,” Katashi remarked, “he should have sent an army, not three defenseless monks.” “Bloodshed only feeds the demons,” the monk said. “You win only a temporary victory at best. This Tengu will return with the new moon, as will any you happen to slay this night. The portal to the realm of the Oni must be closed with an exorcism, otherwise neither the mountains nor the valley nor the villages will know peace.” “When I kill someone,” Katashi said, “he remains dead.” “A human, perhaps,” the monk said, “and perhaps not even then. Perhaps you have peopled this mountain yourself with the deaths you have sown upon previous battlefields. Perhaps you have a burden in all of these ill-begotten creatures and their insatiable bloodlust.” It was Katashi’s turn to feel perturbation, yet it passed quickly. He had no time or patience for emotions that might disadvantage him on the battlefield. The monk continued up the mountain. Katashi followed.
It was a long hike, and the moon guided them. As the night progressed the howling of the mountain increased. It was a faraway whisper at first, but soon became as a wind just on the other side of the trees. The monk spoke suddenly. “If you do not commit yourself to the Eightfold Path you will never reach Satori, but will continue in the cursed cycle of reincarnation.” “It matters little to me,” Katashi said. “I do not care to be part of some divine realm. Does the tiger wish to be declawed and defanged? How happy could such a pathetic creature be?” “If you persist in violence you may indeed become an Oni.” Katashi shrugged. “I am worse than an Oni, little monk. Most men are. For we are shameful hypocrites. At least the Oni do not pretend to be anything other than what they are: blood-drinkers. They eat men without justifying it. They do not say, ‘I kill for my master,’ or ‘I wage war for the sake of peace.’ They kill and they enjoy it and they do not taint their tongues with falsehoods to ease their conscience.” “And you enjoy killing?” the monk said. “I enjoy surviving,” Katashi said. “And you must kill to survive.” “It seems you enjoy little,” the monk said, “not living, and maybe not even surviving.” Katashi scoffed. “And that is the hypocrisy of monks. They claim to live for peace and to avoid bloodshed, but all the while they must employ warriors to kill their foes on their behalf. Monks do not live more peacefully. They simply burden needful violence upon others, like a lord sending his peasants to the paddies to harvest and store the rice.” The monk was thoughtful for a long moment, and then sighed. “You are not wrong,” he said. “The burdens of this world are often unloaded upon others. And we monks are as guilty.” He took a deep breath. “And, so, if you wish to leave my service, please leave. I will not burden you with the karma entailed in this task.” “I am not in your service,” Katashi growled. “I am merely sharing the path for a time. I seek entertainment. Nothing else. Well, no, that is not true.” His hand went to the handle of his new sword. “This new blade pleases me. For that, I suppose I am grateful to you.” “I would rather have died than led you to further bloodshed,” the monk said solemnly. Katashi snorted. “How did such a one as you come to be a monk? Did the Buddha come to you in a dream?” “How did you become a warrior?” the monk countered. “Did Hachiman put a sword in your hand and a blood-thirst in your belly?” “I kill men,” Katashi said. “It is what I am good at, so I do it.” “What of women and children?” the monk asked. Katashi took the monk by the arm, halting them both. He looked at the monk directly, and in his gaze was a hardness that cut quick and sharp like a blade. “If a youth dares to fight me, then he is a man in his own estimation, and I would not dishonor him by refusing his challenge. And I never harm women. Ever.” Katashi scowled. “You did not answer my question. How is it that you became a monk?” The young monk said nothing. He put a finger to his lips, hushing any talk. In the howling wind of the mountains there was a strange sound of chattering—a creeping, crawling, chattering among the trees. Katashi peered at the shadow-swollen trees. Things uncoiled there; things with sharp claws and gnashing pincers and long segmented bodies. Katashi drew his black blade as the long-bodied creatures came billowing through the darkness on their many legs. The nearest creature lunged for the monk, but the monk ensnared its pincer-snapping head with his prayer beads. With a quick prayer the beads glowed with white fire, radiating energy as the chattering centipede blazed and burned away to ash. “Namu Amida Butsu,” the monk said. The other two demons undulated toward Katashi like long ribbons, their movements interweaving with one another so as to confuse and dismay their intended prey. But Katashi’s senses were sharp, splitting the shadows with which the demons concealed themselves. One lunged, and then the other, and with two slashes Katashi had split the giant centipedes in two, their bisected bodies writhing wildly upon the ground. In two subsequent motions he plunged his blade into one head and then the other, swiftly silencing their chattering once and for all. The monk and the ronin continued up the mountain path. “You did not answer my question,” Katashi said. “How did you come to be a monk? Was it in search of respite from agonies? Or was it to seek agonies through self-denial?” “Life is hard and full of agonies,” the monk said. “That is the purpose of Buddha. To offer respite and refuge from the sorrows of Life.” “What do you know of sorrows?” Katashi demanded. “Monks live apart. They are chosen as children, raised in monasteries, provided protection by the same warriors whose means of life they shun.” “I was not always a monk,” the young monk said. “I was, for the longest time, an orphan.” “Born from a bamboo stalk?” the ronin mocked. “My father was a fisherman,” the monk said. “My family lived in a small fishing village on the coast. I do not remember my parents and siblings very well. They were drowned in a tsunami. I was found afterward, clinging to a bundle of bamboo that floated in the aftermath. I was found by a kabuki group, of all things. They made jokes about it, saying I floated into the Floating World. From then on I grew up in the kabuki theater. I learned how to perform and how to play music on the shamisen. I became a very popular kagema. I performed in the dress of a woman, and even played Amaterasu, and dared to think I could shine as brightly as the sun. Men hungered for me, and paid for me. They used me as they would a woman, and wealthy women paid for me as well, and I made money for my kabuki group. But I hated it. My life was suffering.” “And so your precious Buddha saved you? Or did he visit you in the night? I have heard that monks enjoy kabuki, too, and hold private audiences when the world is silent except for the chirping of lonely crickets. They enjoy kagema as well.” The young monk ignored him. “I shuddered at the touch of men and women both. I wanted to run away, but felt guilt and shame at the thought of selfish flight. The kabuki players had rescued me as a child. I felt that I owed them my life.” Something in Katashi’s posture shifted. It was not so rigid, even if it was as flint-to-flame ready. “Why did you leave?” Katashi asked, his voice neither soft nor harsh. “I was violently abused by one man. When I attempted to tell the others they told me to keep silent about it. The man was very wealthy, and was a noble. Thereafter I cut my hair and fled to the monastery. The monks refused to take me at first, knowing who I was. You are correct, ronin; the kabuki actors are paid to visit monks— some monks, but not all—and I had been very popular among the Zen masters. They hated the shame of my presence on their holy grounds, but I persisted. I invoked the sayings of the Buddha, and the Sutras I had learned while in the kabuki theater. Still, they refused me.” Katashi may have sighed, or hissed. Something in his bearing shifted. The monk continued. “Then one night I met an old monk while wandering the woods. He told me to speak his name to the monks. His name was Eiji. I spoke his name the next morning and the monks were astonished. They asked me where I had heard his name. I explained that I had learned the name of the man from the man himself. They immediately accepted me. Eiji, they said, had been the great exorcist in the monastery. He was respected even by the Shinto priestess of a local village for his ability to exorcize malevolent entities.” “And now you exorcize demons,” Katashi said. “Where is this Shinto priestess? Could she not aid you in your quest to cleanse these mountains?” The monk inhaled and exhaled. “She was slain but a week ago by an assault of demons in her village. Many holy men and women have been slain lately while trying to protect their villages against the demons.” Katashi thought about all of the many nights he had spent in the woods, a mere raven’s flight distance, from this mountain. No mischief befell him. No malevolent spirits had stalked and attacked him. Why? “What hope have you in standing against the source, then?” Katashi asked the monk. “It seems as foolish as a fish trying to hold back the river.” “It may be foolishness,” the monk said. “But I refuse to stand aside and let more people die from inaction. The Shogun is too concerned with destroying the warlords plotting against him to concern himself with demons. And so long as men wage war the demons shall invade and feast and prosper in our lands.” The monk paused, turning to look Katashi in the eye. “So…you now know this to be a doomed endeavor. Do you wish to continue shadowing me?” Katashi did not hesitate. “I am bored of stealing from peasants and holy men. I wish for more excitement, and more blades against which to test my mettle. Folly invites much diversion.” They continued up the mountainside. Summer’s blooming abundance cluttered all around them. The slivers of moonlight led them onward and upward. The night was warm and balmy, the mountain forests thick with foliage and mystery. Long abandoned huts reared here and there, the dilapidated structures sinking into their own bamboo bones and haunted by unnatural fires in their dark depths. A temple, too, sat behind a torii gate. Eyes peered from within its cobwebbed shadows. Whatever kami were worshiped there had long given the temple over to more malignant entities. “A man’s soul is like a woodblock,” the monk said. “Each life we live, reincarnated, is a print from that woodblock.” “Another lecture, is it?” Katashi remarked. “The Buddha helps us cut away the details,” the monk said, “removing the jutting imperfections used to stain the page until all that remains is a flat, smooth expanse until a pure whiteness remains, the impurities of this world slipping off of us, untouched by the ink.” “I am rather fond of woodblock prints,” Katashi said. “Especially those of Mt. Fuji. Why should we not enjoy what imprints our lives and makes us who we are? Why would anyone not stain the page with the beauty of this world?” “Why are you a ronin?” the monk countered. Before Katashi could answer, the monk spoke again. “Because this world is transient and fleeting. It is fickle. One day you have a place with a master, and then next day you are adrift after a great calamity. Not even the peaceful trees are spared. The seasons are restless and wait for no man, however painful the cold Winter winds are on his old bones.” “Even so,” Katashi said, “I love this world. It has beauty. It has strength. Perhaps I will never reach Satori, but what of it? I would rather stay earthbound with the changing of the seasons swirling around me than elevate to a realm of sheer consciousness. The world is a fickle mistress, but she remains beautiful, whether a maiden or mother or old crone.” The monk was silent for a long time. He stared at the beads entwining his hand. At length, he spoke. “And that pouch you clutch within your armor? What is the meaning of it?” Katashi bristled. “There are secrets dear to a man, and he would rather die than reveal them to anyone. Even to your precious Buddha.” The silence between them opened around them and they leaned into it as they ascended. It did not comfort them, but it did not provoke them either, covering the soreness between them like a scar. Distantly they heard the howling of the mountain’s summit. They continued to ascend the high path up the mountain.
There was a waterfall somewhere. Its rushing music swelled as they neared it. The land beneath their feet leveled for a time, and the forests opened wide, falling away to let the moonlight play vastly in the mist. Neither the ronin or the monk spoke. They heard the strumming of a koto mingled in with the waterfall’s cascade. Approaching, they saw the heavy breath of the crystalline cataract aglow with moonlight, and, within that heavy breath, the large figure of someone sitting upon a rock in the pool. “It is a demon,” the monk whispered. “It will not let us pass.” “We shall see,” Katashi said. “Wait here.” He approached the waterfall. Strangely, the nearer he came to the waterfall, the less he heard of it, and the more the beautifully sad music of the koto echoed in his ears. At length, the music continued, but the figure leapt from the rock. Still shrouded in mist and shadow, it walked slowly forward. It grew taller as it approached, cradling the large koto in its long arms and still somehow plucking at the strings to haunt the mountains with its melody. Such long, unfolding arms. Such long, unfolding fingers. A figure emerged at last, tall and imposing, her kimono black and her long hair white. Her face was like a grotesque Noh mask, only it was not carved of wood to frighten children. The sad, fang-cluttered smile was her own as well, as were the horns upon her crown and the glowing red eyes. Even now her long, blood-stained claws plucked and struck at the strings of the koto. She was a kijo: a mountain ogress. Somewhere behind him Katashi heard the monk muttering incantations. The ronin hushed him with a wave of his hand. He then walked toward the tall creature, listening to her song as if it was the most beautiful music he had ever heard. When they came face to face he did not flinch, nor did he unsheathe his sword. Instead, he unsheathed himself, casting his sword, armor and the robe beneath aside. He stood boldly naked in the phantom-spun moonlight. The only things he wore were his scars and the pouch whose string hung from his neck, its singular content being the scale of the moon carp. The kijo stared at Katashi, her red eyes glowing with hunger. She ceased playing her song and set down the koto. The koto was as long as Katashi was tall. Its board was made of bones and its strings made of sinews and tendons. The ogress gazed at him for a long moment, eyeing him up and down, her grotesque face full of hunger, and sadness. The ogress raised a taloned hand high above her horned head. Katashi awaited its fell plunge, but when it plunged even he was startled by its boldness. Her hand went to the fold of her black kimono and peeled it away from her tall, angular body. She stood before him as naked as he dared stand before her, her breasts pendulous and her womanhood glistening. He did not flee, but stood fast before her as her long, bony arms embraced him. He embraced her in turn, and she pressed her fetid mouth against his own, tasting of blood and death; a familiar kiss he had tasted many times on the battlefield; a taste that thrilled and repulsed him, enlivening him and sickening him with that katana blade sharpness of contrast. Her fangs cut his lips sweetly. Katashi sucked at her breasts while she pressed herself atop him vigorously. She kissed him many times, and with each kiss he recalled a blade or arrow or spear that kissed his skin, leaving a scar. He no longer felt repulsed, nor even thrilled. This was familiar; this was his life written in the characters of kisses and scars and terrors, all tracing the imminence of death. Even her grotesque face did not repulse him, nor was it truly ugly after a time. His whole life had been ugly and bloody, soaking battlefield after battlefield; enough blood to drown a dragon. But when the Tanaka clan fell, he saw the fruits of his efforts wither and decay on the shorn vine.
The monk ventured further up the mountain path, moving slowly beneath the cover of the trees. A wide berth he gave to the two lovers. To him it seemed their lovemaking was both sacrilegious and beautiful—grotesque and sincere. He was reminded of the many nights he had pleased men and women after his troupe’s kabuki plays. He never enjoyed any of these encounters, save one. And the pleasure of that encounter scared him, even now. There had been an older woman that had often attended his plays. He had seen her in the audience, distinguished by her gaze, for she was transfixed upon him, her eyes as bright and hot as two toro lanterns. She paid only once for him, and even then seemed shy and embarrassed as he disrobed before her. Yet, once she had begun to touch him her passion kindled and she was as lively and ferocious as any woman half her age. But there was a tenderness to her, also, and genuine love in her lovemaking. She sought to please him as much as to enjoy him, and he found that he was genuinely affected by her care. Afterwards, when the sakura blossoms had been shaken fully from her desires, she lay within his arms, her forehead against his chest. She sang a song—an old folk song—and sounded almost as a child. The lines beneath her dark eyes had smoothed and she looked fresh and young though she was old enough to be his mother. Even now her song haunted him.
“Cherry blossoms take flight like butterflies, the stars of Obon night like lovers’ eyes awake in bed, though soon to drift asleep beneath the lantern moon where dreams will keep living on—ever on after we part at the coming of dawn and the dimming of my heart.”
The monk came to the cresting crown of the mountain. A pagoda gleamed white in the moonlight, towering like a mountain unto itself. It was made of human bones. Perched atop its many eaves were Tengu, their black crow wings arched behind their backs. They cackled and cawed riotously. Down below, and standing on the pagoda’s various stories, were Yokai and Tengu. Worse of all, there were Oni. They were large, grim-faced ogres with sharp teeth and long claws. The monk knew that he had now come to the place of evil infection in the mountains and would need to exorcize the place of infection. Looking about, he found a circle of oaks. There was a natural power here. He could sense it. It was powerful with benevolent kami. They would lend him their aid. He readied his incense burner, his kindling, his prayer beads, the Lotus Sutra, and his nerves. He began the purification ritual, chanting and rolling his prayer beads in amongst the incense smoke. The monk went unnoticed for a time. Yet, he was soon spotted by a Tengu flitting about the skeletal pagoda. The Tengu squawked like a crow in alarm, pointing to the circle of oaks. Soon the Oni and other Yokai descended from the pagoda. They came in a languid tide at first, and then rushed on like a wave. The monk knew, then, that he had no time to complete the ritual. He knew he would soon die. And then Katashi arrived, crashing into the beastly creatures like a divine wind. He drew his blade and slew a handful of the twisted creatures without ever clashing swords. He moved like water through a sieve, seemingly untouched by the horde. But the horde was numerous and boasted many formidable foes. His initial attack was effective, but the element of surprise was gone. The larger Oni gathered around him, even as the smaller Yokai attempted to slip past him only to be cut down. The Oni grinned and could have easily overpowered him, yet their pride did not allow it. One by one they faced him, and one by one he tested the black blade on their thick hide and horns and heads. The moon reddened, like a basin of blood. All that was touched by its light was stained with a crimson glow. The mountains seemed drowned in blood. A strange castle could be seen in the night sky. It, too, was made of bones and sat in a lake of blood. Katashi’s black blade dripped blood, and his ferocity was whetted by his bloodlust. He struck at the Oni and Tengu with such power that it forestalled them, even pressed them back. But Katashi could not truly defeat them, and soon suffered injuries. Slashes and lacerations bled him; the trenchant pains of war staggered him and belabored his breath. He felt so alive, though, and determined. He exulted in the battle. But then the demons began to mock the ronin. They called to him by his name. “I remember you, Katashi!” a two-headed Oni said. “You slew my brother and I upon the field! We did not expect to see you here!” “Did I slay your courage as well as your bodies?” Katashi said. “Why did you never seek me when I was so close to you?” “The Oni value your contributions to their armies!” the two-headed Oni said, grinning his canine fangs. “You have been a faithful servant of blood and carnage!” As before, Katashi cut down the two brothers, though now he was more shaken than when he had dealt them their first deaths. For the first time in his life he paled and trembled. Another demon sprang forward: a one-eyed giant with a spear and gnashing fangs. Katashi tightened his hold on his sword, raising it upright beside his head. The blood oozed down the black blade. It was red like human blood; like the countless crimson ponds Katashi had spilled upon countless battlefields. “Katashi!” the giant yelled in joy through his fangs. He laughed a deep, bellowing guffaw that shook the heavens. “So many warriors and generals!” The giant gestured to the expanse of demons. “And all because of you, Katashi! You have made the demon world strong! So strong! So numerous! So unstoppable!” “I will cut you all down again!” Katashi vowed. The giant laughed. “Cut me down and I will return! I return every night, Katashi! Every night since that night beneath the sakura tree! Remember? Remember me? The one whom they called the Spear-Tongued Giant? You challenged me for the honor of being Lord Tanaka’s personal guard! You slew me without mercy, though the duel was meant to be bloodless.” “You drew blood first!” Katashi roared, slicing at the giant with his sword. The giant deflected the strikes. “True! If only I drew enough to kill you! Then, perhaps, I would have been the one peopling the demon realm and be esteemed among the legion! But you won, running your sword through my eye and killing me!” The giant laughed again, seemingly as joyful of his fate as if he had won the duel. Katashi circled the giant. “I will run you through your other eye, fool!” The giant swung his club and Katashi rolled beneath the knotted wood, rising to his feet with a slash of his sword splitting the giant’s eye. The giant roared, his bellowing voice staggering into lunatic laughter as he clutched his ruined eye. “Katashi!!!” he laughed. “You have not changed!” The giant swung his club blindly, his muscular arms whirling in a frenzy. Katashi retreated discreetly while the giant’s blind attacks struck the other Oni rushing past him to confront the intruders. Small and large Oni were flung away, broken and crushed by the giant’s club. The horde did not baulk, but laughed as if the carnage was the greatest merriment to be had. Eventually a Tengu swooped down and beheaded the giant with his blade, if only to cease his flailing, and the blinded giant’s head fell to the mist-glimmering grass, still laughing. “I will be back, Katashi!” he vowed. “Upon the next moon I will eat your eyes and drink your blood and welcome you among your true brethren for all eternity!” The Tengu that had slain the giant now flew toward Katashi. Katashi raised his crimson-cloyed blade with one hand. With the other hand he stealthily drew his tanto blade from its concealed sheath. As the Tengu swooped, Katashi threw his tanto, piercing the crow-demon’s chest. The creature collapsed to the ground, barreling over the smaller Yokai below in a tangle of limbs and feathers. Stepping through this cobbled road of mangled bodies was a horned Oni with red skin and a large scythe. He seemed in a good mood. “What are you trying to be now, Katashi?” the Oni said. “A nio? Laughable! And where is your fellow guardian?” The Oni looked past Katashi, seeing the monk in the woods. “Ah! A monk? To think you would ally yourself with a monk! I will sully his soul with the filth of his own flesh!” The Oni dashed toward the trees, his scythe raised for a bloody harvest. Katashi dashed after the Oni, slashing the demon’s leg. It was a feint, however, and the demon spun about, his scythe seeking Katashi’s neck. Katashi twisted sideways, throwing his left arm up against the crescent blade. The blade drank deeply and Katashi nearly fell. Instead, he rallied himself through the blinding pain with a flaming fury and swung his black blade with his one good arm, beheading the Oni at a single stroke. The Oni’s body fell, and beside it Katashi sagged to one knee, clutching his sword. The wounded arm hung limply, bleeding from the shredded socket. He was pale and a clammy sweat drenched his forehead. His eyes blurred in and out of focus and he felt drowsy; so tired that he should sleep forever. The horde of Oni gathered around. They did not rush. They pleased themselves by mocking the ronin and his . Their taunts roused Katashi. He glanced back at the monk, his figure wreathed in white fire as he continued his chants. In among the white fire he saw other figures: small and large, strangely shaped; some humanoid, others not nearly so. These figures clustered around the monk protectively, driving back the smaller Yokai that had slipped past Katashi. He realized, after a moment, that they were kami. Nature spirits. It was then, at this realization—when he knew that Nature itself was aspiring to protect the Buddhist monk—that Katashi could not surrender. If the land of Nihon would aid the monk, then Katashi felt that the monk was worthy of Katashi’s service, even if the Buddha wasn’t. Grimacing, Katashi wobbled as he righted himself up to his feet. “I will rest in my death,” he told himself. “But for now…I must test my blade.” The exorcism continued in earnest, and the battle continued in desperation. The floating castle began to fade, as did the howling of the demonic winds. The crimson moon waned, bleeding out until it was pink, and then dull white. Katashi bled out, too, and paled as he weakened. Still did he swing his blade against the horde, even as he fell to his knees again and again. Blood flowed from one eye, and blood clouded the other eye. His whole being was fury and pain. The Oni and Tengu realized what the whitening of the moon meant. They fled in fear, as if from the chittering of a hungry Shinchu. It was too late for them. The castle faded from the sky and the pagoda faded from the mountaintop. With the latter faded the cursed creatures that had inhabited its towering stories and eaves. Soon all that remained was the mountain, the moon, the monk, and a dying man. The young monk hurried to his side. “I will perform the rites,” the monk said, kneeling beside Katashi. “You have served the Buddha well and should be rewarded.” “I served…Nihon…” the ronin said. A burst of blood in his throat shook him. Dropping his sword, he withdrew the pouch beneath his shattered breastplate. Out of it he took the white koi scale and held it up to look at it with his remaining eye. “Your secret,” the monk said, softly. “Yes,” he said. “The joy of my life…a smiling face…reflected in the moon pond…” He coughed up more blood, his breathing labored. His face was white and his lips red, like a kabuki actor. “Her smile…she loved the koi…” “She was your lover,” the monk said. “And my master’s concubine,” Katashi said, his voice slowing. “She…loved the moon pond…the koi…she said…she was like the koi fish…gave me…gave me this porcelain scale from…her hairpin…” “She cared for you very much,” the monk said. “Yes…she would…play the koto for me…sometimes…before we made love…” His bloody brow furrowed with pain. “During the invasion…she killed the lord of the Tanaka clan…herself…and fled to the woods… I do not know…what happened to her…” “I will pray that both of you are united in your next lives,” the monk said. “I do not…wish for much,” Katashi said, grimacing as a laceration in his gut broke and bled freely. “Just…just a peaceful life…of isolation…silence…without violence… without…wrath…and with the…beauty of the seasons…all around…such as when…when I told her…she was my moon…” Katashi’s final breath faded away. The monk prayed over the ronin, repeating the Lotus Sutra to bless his passing. When morning came, so, too, did the sun, and the mountain was bathed in purifying light. The Oni and Yokai were gone. The kami rejoiced in their silent, subtle way. The monk purified Katashi and buried him, marking his grave with a stone. He then descended the mountain path. Where the monk passed he met with no demon or ghost. The mountain had been completely cleansed. When he came to the waterfall and its pool he did not see the kijo anymore. Rather, the place was serene and uninhabited. He glanced at it for a moment, then turned to leave. The gleam of white motion caught his eye and he turned to look at the pool again. Floating in the pool, serene and content, were two pale white kois. They gleamed with a porcelain luster as they floated up. They were so white that the carved edges of their scales were invisible in the sheen along their flanks. A leaf fell from a maple tree—burning orange like a phoenix’s feather. The monk bowed and then left the kois to their reward.
So polluted, this oasis in this vast desert, and so parched— poisoned with the unseen traces of what slakes us during our march; traces of poison created for convenience of our thirst thinking ourselves wise, and sated, to drink from bottles that are cursed, using death-essence that has staled from creatures of other ages to fuel the comforts which hailed progress in its doubtful stages till our death march comes to an end and we sink deep into the wastes to conclude, soon, this thirsty trend to fuel other species’ tastes.