The string is of liquid light.
It weaves around the tree branches, across the forest, disappearing in the smoke of charcoal burners' furnaces. Had it been not for the barely noticeable wriggling as the thread moved over the rough bark, Ginko would consider the Mushi harmless and continue in his journey across the mountain. He hoped to reach the valley by sunset. The huts of wandering colliers are far from pleasant shelter, even after two nights spent under his own coat by the simmering embers.
„Oh, dear," he mutters more out of habit than actual annoyment. His voice carries to the cobweb together with his cigarette smoke. The string is glistening in the rays of sunlight with the faintest tint of crimson; the evening dew has not fallen yet. It would be wisest to hurry to see what damage had the cobweb done in the burners' families. No villagers are hospitable after dawn, and the colliers thrice less so.
The squirrels' bones from the barely passed winter crunch resignedly under his soles. His thoughts are occupied partly by revoking his scrolls, searching for the sketch of endless thread in memory, partly by counting the frequency of moving of burners in order to find out whether this particular group owes him for a help or is owed a night's lodging or a bowl of beet soup. The charcoal burners are a strange folk, unfriendly and taciturn, and dying young after being half-blind for years.
Ginko does not like owing a favor he has no one to repay to.
„Hey, nii-san."
Ginko petrifies for a fleeting moment; he never heard of Mushi speaking with human voice. That would be a story for Tanyuu, he thinks, before he catches a glimpse of a tuft of hair, silver just like the thread that runs over it.
„Hey, nii-san, would you by chance have something to eat?"
The voice belongs to a body of a man. He's sitting on the bed of wood sorrel, has leaves in his hair silver like glimpse of the moon through the clouds heavy with storm, and a sword without sheath lying by his feet. The string of Mushi ties him to a tree. He does not look scared. His eyes are empty, as if possessed by a soul-eating Mushi.
Ginko wonders for how long must the man have been sitting here to become a part of the cobweb. It wasn't a night, nor two.
„No," he says in the end. It never helps to ask questions and sometimes it doesn't help to have answers, and the dried meat he bought in the last town he stayed in is not enough to fill a stomach.
„I can help you to find some," he offers instead. „there is a group of charcoal burners settled nearby."
The man chuckles. His voice breaks and Ginko realizes that he is no more than a boy, the one that should be rowing the fields or washing the plates of paint and dance around the fire during suffocating summer nights. Not dying from hunger under a sleeping oak tree, bound by an invisible rope that would make anyone scream and writhe in confusion.
„Nah," the boy tries to wave his hand in a dismissing move. It is tied too tightly to his own waist. He leaves it as it is, helplessly touching the blade of his katana sprinkled with drops of long dried blood.
Tiny Mushi, the harmless ones, the ones that are more akin to bugs and flies and earthworms, gather around his fingers. They hide in the the crevices of his hand, climb to the depths of his sleeve. The winged ones land on the strands of his hair, mistaking them for kouki in the cold rays of sunlight. Minuscule, moth-like Mushi of sleep are woven into his eyelashes.
His eyelids are heavy. Ginko wonders for how long has he been fighting an inmeasurable urge to fall asleep. The enigmatic Mushi ties its strings tighter around his heart and Ginko wants to tell him that he is not alone, that there are beings that keep him company through sleepless nights and cold morning dews.
It doesn't seem to be his place to do so.
The boy doesn't seem to see them.
The beet soup is watery and bland and tastes of mulch and charcoal dust.
The old lady is frowning at Ginko, as if he personally was a cause for wood burning badly this year. A least he thinks she's frowning; his good eye is filled with tears, stinging from the thick smoke seeping into all corners of the make-shift settlement. There are no Mushi in the hut with the roof of dried grass, sparse the ones living in fires for preparing food. Even those are somewhat different, as if awakened from their slumber and still not coming into terms with the world they woke into. Ginko lights his cigarette anyways.
„We have no money to pay you," the old lady barks out.
Ginko wants to say that he demands no pay. He knows, though, that people hardened by poverty and beaten by cold winter winds to the marrow of their bones find such a thought a product of mere lunacy. But it means that there is work to be paid for, and that in itself is enough.
„We can talk about pay later," he says, whirling pieces of beet in his bowl. He wonders if the woman encountered other Mushishi, the ones that kill and burn and let Mushi murder each other and them demand to be paid in bronze and silver coins instead of food and shelter and whatever is given out of good will. He asks for nothing more than an artefact for Adashino and a story for Tanyuu. And a beet soup that is not rotten. He has forgotten what is it like to be picky.
„It's my daughter,"the woman says reluctantly. She stands up to open the door to relieve of the smoke from the cooking fire. Tar black fumes come inside instead, whirling under the roof and along the other door Ginko did not notice before. He cannot resist an urge to cough. The woman throws a glance that undoubtedly means that she took it as a great offense.
„She cannot leave her room. Ever since we came here and built our huts, she can barely make few steps. We're gonna move again when the wood runs out. Maybe even before Midsummer, the elders say."
The woman throws her arms in a gesture of exasperance, as if her daughter was an unneccessarily disobedient pet.
„We can't carry her, mister understands, right?"
Ginko almost chuckles at his sudden promotion from you to mister.
„I will look at her at dawn," he says, and tries to remember what kind of Mushi stays when all the others leave. He never wonders the same about humans; they are too unpredictable and fickle and he knows the answer anyways. More bread finds its way into his pocket. The woman pretends not to notice.
That night he sleeps on the mat of woven pine needles and dreams of little spiders crawling up his legs, weaving nets made of silver hair of boys with empty eyes.
He doesn't wake up at dawn.
The boy doesn't tell him his name.
He doesn't tell him anything, really, munching on the stale bread smelling of moist and mold and herbs Ginko forgot in his coat pockets. The fingers on the hand that isn't tied by the thread are rough and calloused and tremble in the slightest tremor. The moth-like Mushi nibbling on the crumbs don't seem to mind.
„What a curious thing, the cobweb," Ginko says. Seemingly to himself, but he can see the boy's head turn to the sound of his voice. For a moment he feels like apologizing for not knowing the proper name of the Mushi. He figures the name is as good as any other, and neither the boy or the Mushi would take an offense.
The thread glistens almost approvingly in the timid midday sun.
„I've never seen a Mushi this vast," he continues, ready to answer any questions. There are none to come. „Except Kouki, that is."
The boy is silent. The bread is eaten, the crumbs thrown off on the forest floor. The Mushi fall asleep in the crook of his collarbone creeping out of his robe.
It's time to visit the charcoal burner's daughter, and yet Ginko doesn't move.
The sunlight falls on the silver hair and for a moment they seem made of gold, like the eyes on the old murals, like the fires burning on the dry bamboo wood, like Kouki itself.
„You're a priest, right?"
Ginko startles. For a fickle moment, he wonders what kind of priest wears a shirt and a coat and smokes cigarettes with no scent. The boy does not seem to take in any of those. His eyes are turn upwards, to the crowns of trees, and still so empty as if he did not see anything at all.
„You can say that," Ginko answers, because it is neither time nor place to answer unasked questions, and the lecture on the existence of Mushi would bring no merit to either of them.
The boy seems to ponder about something. His free hand methodically tears leaves off the sorrel, but he doesn't eat them, like village children are prone to. The Mushi seem to be forgiving about the meaningless destruction.
„You don't have an eye," he says at last – neither a question, nor an inquiry, purely an observation. Surprising nonetheless; Ginko alway relied on the unmistakable quality of his prosthetic eye. In the dim light of the forest, it should have been impossible to notice.
„Did it hurt?" Ginko expected many questions, but the one posed was unfitting, like a question a little child would ask. „When you lost it, did it hurt?"
„I did not lose it in a normal way." Ginko wanted to laugh at his own reply. Really, what is a normal way to lose an eye? Maybe there are many of those who lost their eyes to the darkness like he did. And those who don't remember it at all, like he does. „I wouldn't know," he settles before he realizes that it's not lie.
The boy seems content with the reply. The string of light doesn't; it tingles menacingly, sending reflections of sunlight like a rain of needles on the boy's shoulders. It grows in lenght, Ginko notices. Not noticeably, just enough for it to coil tighter around the boy's chest, to tie his fingers closer to the blade of his sword, to carve into the skin of his bony wrists.
The sense of dread fills Ginko. How come he didn't notice sooner, how come it never crossed his mind -
The boy is sitting there, head clad in silver resting on his shoulder, blissfully unaware of the living, sentient ropes that are to crush his bones, cut his breathing before he is even given a chance to see his bounds.
„Hey," the boy whispers, before Ginko opens his mouth to tell him about his lungs, about the pain in his chest, about the death that comes soon, sooner than the wrinkles on his forehead would have time to be accompanied by the ones by the corners of his mouth. „Hey, can you make it go away?"
Before Ginko managed to ask what does the boy mean – the rope, the hunger, whatever causes the haunted look in his eyes – the boy's head falls on his chest and Ginko realizes that after days, he finally fell asleep.
The room has a low ceiling, sealed door and, once again, stinging smoke that fills every nook and crane of every corner.
Ginko curses. He cannot see his own hand in the thick whirling clounds heavily scenting of sage and pine, not to mention any Mushi. He sees the girl, sitting on the pillow in the same twisted posture Tanyuu sits when writing, but she is no more than a vague silhouette, too.
„Hello," he says, because there is not much else for him to do.
„Go away."
The voice is also clouded by smoke, sounding hollow and annoyed at the same time, making it difficult to choose which one it is. It sounds hostile either way. Ginko feel immeasurable relief; hostile Mushi and disabling Mushi and Mushi thriving in fumes people burn to make them go away, that much he can deal with, that much he can find in scrolls of faded ink and browned paper.
„You cannot stand," he tries again, „or so I've been told."
„Yes. I can't. Now go away."
Ginko sits down on the floor from theof trampled soil. The conversation doesn't seem to become short, or pleasant, or fruitful for that matter. He lights his cigarette and watches a clump of harmless worm-like Mushi hurrying away. He wonders if they leave to join what seemed to be all the Mushi of this mountain by the side of the boy with empty eyes.
He wonders if he's been already woken up by shivers. The spring is cold this year.
„I want to help," he says, but he's not looking at the figure veiled in thick smoke.
There is no answer coming, so he waits until the fire extinguishes and smoke dissipates in the wind stealthily coming in through the gaps in tiles.
The girl has long, well-kept hair, scowl marring her features and legs covered in layered blanket. Her eyes pretend to assess Ginko's unusual appereance, but they wander East, somewhere beyond the wall. There is no longing in them, no wanderlust, just impatient, silent waiting. It tells Ginko everything he needs to know.
There are no Mushi in sight.
„The village is too far," he lights another cigarette. There is no need for some curious Mushi to overhear their conversation. He feels strange pang of disappointment, but decides it would do him no good to research it now. „Is he a woodcutter?"
He doesn't need for her to agree. She recovers from the shock quickly; she probably resigned to be busted the moment she heard about a man able to see the presumpted reason for her illness. She throws the blanket away and stretches her legs.
„I'm sick of travelling," she says bluntly. It doesn't sound like an apology, nor like an excuse. She doesn't ask whether he will tell her parents.
„He told me I could live with him, in the village on the other side of the mountain. In a house. With tatami and paper door. For years without moving. He says there is enough wood for him to have work." She hesitates, as if she wasn't sure he would understand the next sentence. „To be bound by something, you know."
Ginko knows, but isn't to tell her so. Instead he pretends to search his pockets for another cigarette, well knowing he left the rest of them in the coat.
„House is not the only thing that binds you," he says, still roaming all the tiny drawers of his backpack. Sometime halfaway through the sentence he starts searching for the concoction against cold he bought in the town.
„What else then?" A question is posed more from spite than interest. She is set, he can see.
He is prepared to say what he usually answers – loved ones, customs, even the whole world itself can bind you if you declare it your home. He doesn't say any of those. He finds the potion and it reminds him of the boy and the string of silver that binds him because he doesn't want to and wants at the same time.
He stands up. He doesn't really care about the decision she does; she's not meant to feel completely right would she choose any. He wonders how many years will it take for her to realize that it cannot be any other way.
„Something that doesn't suffocate you."
He leaves and doesn't turn back, because it wouldn't do to find a secret to the string of light only for its prisoner to die in the chilly northern breeze.
„You talk from sleep."
The sorrel is covered in crystals of frost. The sun has set hours ago, leaving nothing but bitter aftertaste of dusk. It's eerily silent; insects left the mountain when the colliers came, and everything else ran away from the boundaries of the mysterious thread. There are Mushi, in flocks, in hoards, but they don't speak and don't sing.
The boy doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't acknowledge Ginko's presence. If Ginko didn't know better, if he didn't spend his life convincing people out of their dreams long after they woke, he would think him asleep. Dead, even.
„It will not go away," he says, because the boy doesn't speak, and the forest soil is wet from evening dew and uncomfortable to sit on. „The string, that is."
The boy doesn't stir. His shallow breathing comes out ratchety from his constricted, bruised ribs. Only flutter of his eyelashes, imperceptible in the darkness that keeps hold of the mountain by any other eye, betrays him. Light of the crescent moon passing through the branches dances on the bare blade of his sword tainted with stains that didn't go away, that are seeped into steel, that are never to wash away.
The Mushi don't care.
„The rest is your choice," Ginko continues. He's not looking at the boy. There is a hitch of understanding in his breath, and that is enough. The string tentatively attempts to coil around Ginko's fingers. He flicks it away and, for the first time in what seems like eternity, longs for his cigarette.
The boy's hair glistens in the distant light of colliers' furnaces and Ginko wants to tell him. That some Mushi never go away, just like the darkness will never leave his eye. That sometimes, the only way to battle chains that bind you is to find someone who will share them with you. That his screams echoed in the forest. That dead sometimes come back, either to guard or to reap, and neither is something to look forward to.
It is not his place to say any of that.
„Good night," he says instead. He takes off his coat and covers the boy that seems to fall asleep again. Nights are cold this spring.
He takes on a trek to the valley and wonders, if darkness comes in more forms than the one he doesn't remember encountering.
The mountain breaths in deep, deep slumber.