Disclaimer : Fushigi Yuugi and characters belong to Watase Yuu and others. Anything that is not FY- related is original.
Note : Italics within (…) indicate a character's direct thoughts. Elsewhere italics may be used for emphasis or to indicate portions that are being read out.
Many, many thank yous to KittyLynne, my awesome beta-reader who is, literally, this fanfic's guardian angel. And thanks to Amaya-san who read through this fic in its original state and gave some very helpful suggestions. Thanks no da!
Constructive criticism is welcomed. Flames and flame-throwers will be given to the Genbu seishi for target practice.
Ginrei Kaiden
Story of the Snow-capped Mountain
Ever thine, ever and again
Bearing brown roses and
the shards of a rainbow…
Beloved, I come to thee.
xxx
Prologue : Atosaki
"Where the beginning lies in an end…"
Part I
Year 12 of the Taisho (1923), Morioka
A crimson sunset lingered in the skies above Morioka, the sun seeming reluctant to give way to the oncoming darkness. The narrow, winding streets remained strangely empty, though it was past the hour people returned home after work. Lanterns, already lit and hung over the doorsteps of houses, threw a limited, golden radiance on the deserted paths as the dusk deepened.
The last rays of dying sunlight struck against the sloping roof of one particular house, causing the rich brown of the wood to appear blood-drenched. The dwelling and its garden were situated close to a small forest, which gave it an air of ominous seclusion. No lanterns were lit above the house's entrance and a passer-by might have mistaken it to be as unoccupied as the streets, but for the solitary patch of lamplight gleaming from a window.
There, the silhouette of a man could be seen as he hunched over a book, clearly reading it at a desperate pace.
A man who had already lost his wife, and, as far as he could see, was losing his only child as well.
A disheveled and care-worn Oukuda Einosuke turned over a page. Words began to form lines upon the wrinkled paper, written in the elegant kanji that had been forging a story through the book's leaves. His weary, red-rimmed eyes hurriedly took in the flowing script, and within a few seconds had moved onto the next page, and then the next. Oukuda Einosuke was a man who knew he was locked in a race against time.
Then abruptly, there came a pause in his mad perusal. Using a finger to place the letters, he haltingly read aloud from the book.
"The Maiden summoned the god within her and asked that he bestow peace and prosperity to the kingdom under his rule. Her wish was granted. Overcome with exhaustion, the priestess fell into the arms of her faithful warriors."
And so, in three deceptively simple sentences was conveyed the rise of a god, the agony and courage of a priestess, and the start of a legend that would relentlessly repeat itself through the ages.
Oukuda Einosuke shivered. He could imagine the defiant expression on his fiery daughter's face as she commanded the black turtle god. Another page flipped by.
"Despite the protests of her warriors, the priestess prepared herself for the second wish in her already weakened body. She took leave of them, then pronounced her desire—to return to her own world."
"Takiko?"
It had been a week since Takiko had been swallowed by the book, the grieving father thought bitterly. Only a week had ebbed away in the tides of mortal time, though many months seemed to have gone in the book. No matter; to him, there was merely a vacuum where he should have known the passing of the days. A silk ribbon, his daughter's, was held fast in his clenched fingers. He had almost given up on his hopes of seeing her again.
(Will she return? Would the book truly release her from its pages?)
As if replying to his inner thoughts, the book came to life, wrenching itself out of his hands to float in midair. There was a flash of intensely strong light as a portal between the worlds opened. A cold breath of snow whirled into the room, scattering loose papers and knocking the lamp to the floor. Momentarily distracted, he retrieved the lamp, relit it, and set it upright on his low desk.
In the uncertain, flickering light, the form of Oukuda Takiko could be seen kneeling on the floor, slumped over, her head sunk to her chest.
"Ta-Takiko? Is it really you?" he asked, the words choking in his throat.
The girl raised her head. "Father?"
Oukuda Takiko had been a beautiful and radiant young woman when she was last seen in the real world. Now, however, the lamplight fell on an emaciated, pale face that retained the barest trace of its former loveliness. She got to her feet and tried to walk, but swayed as she stood and would have stumbled. Recovering from his initial shock, Einosuke hastened to help the unsteady girl.
"Careful, Takiko. Here, now… be comfortable," he said, easing her into a sitting-position on the tatami-covered floor. He knelt close by her and brushed the hair away from her forehead with an unsteady hand. It was shocking; she looked skeletal, as though invoking the god had drained away almost all of the health and life from her. But she was back, and that was all that mattered, he told himself.
He felt an immense pride in his daughter: the phenomenal struggle she went through to summon Genbu, her courage and strength in facing trial after trial in the book world… he could not believe it of his child. For most of his married life, he had deeply regretted being the father of a girl-child who would grow up to be a frail woman. In this last week, Takiko had proved how wrong he had been in his estimate of her. He dearly wished he could gather his child in his arms and apologize heartily for his sins as a father. But all his life, Oukuda Einosuke had been a proud man, and old habits and traits died hard. He could not humble himself.
But he did not yet know the extent of sacrifice that would be required of his daughter.
"How is Grandma?" Takiko asked, her voice seeming to come from afar. "It must be months since I saw her."
"It's been only a week since you… since you left. Your grandmother went home two days ago."
"Ah… only a week?" She looked thoughtful. "I see."
The silence that then fell was strained and awkward. He looked at her intently, observing every feature in the thin, shrunken face. Never before had he so appreciated the close resemblance she bore to his dead wife. Yoshie had been painfully ill when she died, and the resemblance between mother and daughter appeared complete now, in sickness.
"Can I get you something?" His inquiry was met by a negative nod. He did not like what he saw; Takiko still remained in the seated position he had left her, her eyes half-closed, looking as if she hadn't the strength or the will to keep them open. She needed a doctor, he realized. His eyes darted to the book, which still floated beside her, emitting a faint luminosity through its rapidly fluttering pages. A distant rumbling reached his ears; perhaps a thunder-storm was imminent.
(Rain...tears of the gods…)
He could guess part of the reason behind Takiko's sadness and lethargy.
"My daughter, I am sorry … I am very sorry about Uruki. He was a fine man."
At the very mention of the name, a light had sprung, flame-like, into her tired eyes. She gazed out of the open window. The cherry tree in the garden was still flowering, the blossoms scenting the night air with sweet fragrance. A sudden breeze rustled through the creaking branches of the tree, and some of the white flowers drifted into the room.
Oukuda Takiko smiled as she remembered him who she had left behind.
"It's still summer here," she murmured softly, almost in mild surprise. "But autumn draws near." Her breath came in little gasps between words, and a sharp wince contorted her features, but the spasm immediately passed.
Oukuda Einosuke stared at her with rapt attention, remorse filling his soul. He had never given much of his time to his family before. Though aware that his wife was ill, he had neglected her in his constant preoccupation with writing. He had neglected his child, even when she had frequently sought his presence.
And what for? What had all his labors and studies finally amounted to? The same book he had preferred to translate when his wife lay dying and his daughter was left alone had finally shown its true nature; his very efforts had been instrumental to leading his daughter to an ordeal in another world.
Fate was a cruel traitor.
A deep shudder ran through the earth at that moment, a shudder that crept through the spines of father and daughter like jolts of electricity. While the tremor elicited no reaction from the man, the girl twisted harshly in her position and her lips tightened in an angry grimace. A small whimper of pain broke through her effort at maintaining control.
"Takiko! What is it, child?" The old man asked anxiously. "I'll get the doctor right now—"
"No!"
"You're hurt!" He protested.
"No… it's no use. There's nothing he can do for me, father. Please stay with me, at least now." Her large dark eyes, dilated to the point of appearing grotesque, held reproach.
Oukuda Einosuke did not understand what was happening; a curious inertia wrapped him in its coils, though the accusation in her eyes stung him to his very heart. Before he knew what he was doing, he had grasped his daughter's thin hands. Obstinate pride melted away as frost in sunshine, and words came rushing out in an urgent stream, questions he had wanted to ask for a long time.
"How did you grow to be so good and strong, Takiko? Where did you get your courage? The sacrifices you made… You were a fine priestess, child." He gripped her hands harder, and uttered the words he had never thought he would have occasion to say to his girl-child.
"I am proud of you, Takiko. Proud that you are my daughter."
He watched a tear slide down her wasted cheek, and knew that he too was crying.
"I was wrong to hold myself away from you and your mother. I understand that now. It's my fault you had to undergo this suffering… if only I hadn't been working on that wretched book—"
She raised her hand, interrupting him.
"It isn't wretched, father. It's… it's a wonderful book. You see, it brought him to me…" Again, the faint smile played about her lips. More flowers drifted in with the wind against the spreading moonlight.
"I missed you father, all these years. I thought you didn't want me. But, I'm glad… I'm happy now. I'm happy that you are proud of me."
Oukudo Einosuke gratefully pressed her hands, then gasped. With an unexpectedly rapid movement, he pulled back the sleeves of her kimono to see that what had once been smooth, milky skin was now greenish-black, and riddled with raised scales.
"What is this, Takiko! What is happening?"
A loud unearthly shriek burst from Takiko's lips, coinciding with a sudden, powerful shaking of the ground below them. It was as though a thunder-storm had been unleashed in the deepest bowels of the earth. It was as though something was trying to break through the confines of the earth…
"What is it, daughter! Answer me! What is happening to you?"
Now writhing in mortal pain, Takiko was in no condition to answer. The heavens came crashing down on Oukuda Einosuke; he felt his life-breath being sucked away as he slowly began to comprehend what was occuring.
(No, this can't be! This means… this means…oh gods, no…)
In two leaps he had reached the floating book and tore through the pages to the end.
"The maiden could not prevent it. Slowly, she was being devoured by the Beast god dwelling within her. Through his priestess, Genbu had appeared in the other world, and had begun to emerge, rising from the subterranean depths of rock and soil, rending the earth apart in his tumultuous ascent."
How was this possible? A creature of fiction, a being that was given shape in paper, materializing in the real world? The book dropped from the old man's hands.
Another scream broke out from Takiko; the walls of the house reverberated with the high-pitched noise, the rumble of moving earth, and the sound of shattering stones making way for...
The nightmare that had begun with Takiko's entry into the book was reaching its climax as fiction, myth and superstition merged with reality in an unholy, ruinous turn of events.
The turbulence below the ground became too strong for Oukuda Einosuke to withstand; no earthquake ever tormented the earth so. He dropped to his knees and crawled on the shaking floor to his daughter. The scales of Genbu were now visible on her neck; it was clear she could not last long. Death stared at him from her eyes.
"Father," she spoke with an immense effort, "you must end this now. He… Genbu… is coming…"
Something beyond earthly comprehension was appearing from the vast emptiness that lay before him. Moonlight shone on a broad back that had raised black scales…
"Kill me… and this will be over."
Oukuda Einosuke still had sufficient control over his faculties to understand what she meant. He slid the top of his desk open and unexpectedly, brought out a revolver. Bulky and cumbersome, the instrument seemed very much out of place in the simple room, with its harsh, shining, exterior— a precursor of certain doom. The gun shook in his hands. He could not remember why he had a gun… he could not remember.
He looked at the child he had so wronged in life, took aim, and shot her through the heart.
Thwarted out of his hour of ascension, the god let out an angry roar as he was pulled back into the pages of the book. The portal closed, but the damage endured; a yawning cavern of darkness that was the only solid reminder of the narrowly averted catastrophe.
While the whole of Morioka wondered over the violent earthquake that had struck their city and dissipated without causing apparent destruction, none of the inhabitants wondered about the silence from the Oukuda residence. They would discover the empty house a few days later, with the dead bodies of father and daughter, the gun that killed them both clenched in the man's hand that also held a silk ribbon.
And long after the rumors and tales faded away, the crimson sunlight continued to strike the roof of that solitary house beside the forest, turning the rich wood a blood-drenched red, perhaps in memory of the sadness that had occurred.
Part II
Year 14 of the Heisei (2002), Tokyo
Sukunami Taka was a happy man.
As he walked through the streets of downtown Tokyo, heading home after work, he could not help whistling a random, slightly off-key, tune—a commendable outlet for his rising spirits. It was one of those early-autumn evenings which had the warmth of summer and the rich beauty of fall; the very air seemed infused with sparkling gold, covering the world with a blanket of cheerful benevolence.
But it was not the mere external appearance of the world that had raised his mood to such heights. The day being the end of the month, a sizeable paycheck resided comfortably in his pocket, and he had excellent plans for its disposal. Not to spend the entire amount of course, but a considerable part of it. Some of his earnings would go to the new(expensive!) apartment he had set his sights on, and the remainder… the handsome young man grinned as an idea formed in his head, causing a couple of school-girls who passed by to gaze dreamily after him.
He could spend the rest of the money on something nice for his wife and son, perhaps a week-end trip to the mountains, that would not be too dear, he mentally calculated. Miaka would love it, he knew, and there might be some cash left to deposit in the bank account if he was careful. Suzaku knew with the cost of living these days one could not afford to lose a single yen, he mused with some regret. But that did not mean he couldn't spend on his wife and child.
His wife and his son, thought Sukunami Taka possessively, a shiver of happy pride surging through him that sent his spirits soaring even higher.
For the first time in a long while, he felt himself to truly be a part of the real world; a common man with a wife, kid, and a steady job. Not a warrior guarding a priestess, but a husband with a wife. Not a soldier fighting against an enemy, but a man who had to fight his bills into shape. Life, he reflected, was finally true, perfect, and complete. The whistling became a soft hum and the words of the latest Hamasaki Ayumi song began to float in the mellow evening.
As he went by the National Library, he spared the sprawling building a glance of affectionate reminiscence. That building was where Miaka had first opened the Book, and subsequently, arrived in the other world... and into his arms. Sure, the Book had later brought an incredible lot of hardship and trouble to him and his, but it had all been worth it, worth a thousand times over. He sighed once, memories of another world and another life rushing over him in restless waves.
"Sumimasen!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Please excuse me."
Caught up in the pleasant reverie, he had inadvertently run into an older man coming down the steps of the library. The stranger started violently when the young man spoke, and hugged his black coat closer. A parcel bulged near his chest. He was bald, dressed in shabby clothes, and on the whole, looked rather disreputable, Sukunami Taka decided.
"It's all right… do itashimashite," the stranger replied in a cultured voice that belied his ragged appearance. He hurried away, melting into the crowds of people thronging the pavement.
Sukunami Taka stared after the rapidly disappearing man, feeling a small bite of apprehension gnaw into him. When they collided just then, the other man had actually appeared scared, frightened, as only people conscious of some guilt can. He looked around. There was nothing out of place, no disturbance of any kind, just ordinary people moving about.
A playful breeze brought leaves and flowers fluttering down about him, the whitish flowers falling like snowflakes.
I wonder if everything's all right, he thought for a brief instant.
Then somewhere a clock-tower struck six, its ponderous tones rendered dim by the distance and traffic noise.
"K'so, it's six already!" Sukunami Taka muttered under his breath, walking swiftly away from the library and resuming his way home. Gradually, thoughts of the odd stranger faded away from his mind as more pleasurable thoughts regarding the weekend overtook him.
Another ten minutes found him at his apartment, being hugged by his beloved wife and subject to the adoring grimaces bestowed on him by his little son. And after suggesting the excursion to the mountains, he was rewarded with even more adoring hugs and delighted squeals.
"I'm going to tell Yui-chan right away!" Miaka said, moving away to the telephone. "Maybe she and Tetsuya can come too!" she exclaimed. Excitedly punching the numbers to the Kajiwara home, she soon became engrossed with making plans with her friend, while Sukunami Taka's feeble "but we haven't really decided on it yet!" went unnoticed.
Feeling a bit bemused, he spent a few moments playing with his son and toy building-blocks but his efforts at construction were thwarted. At the moment, his boy seemed be more fond of knocking down any particular structure his father built than making one of his own, and soon the bricks were lumped together into a mountainous pile. With a laugh and a shake of his head, Taka got to his feet and went to the kitchen, where he poured himself a generous cup of tea and settled into a comfy chair, newspaper in hand.
Sports news, national politics, international news, all flipped by in that order, amid long sips of tea. Just as he was about to toss the paper away, a section in one of the inner pages captured his attention. Under 'cultural interest,' there was an article on… he squinted to read the small print.
"Nanashii?" he read aloud.
Spreading the sheet of paper over the table and the cup of cooling tea, he continued to scan the rest of the article.
The Nanashii, or "that which is nameless" is said to be an ancient evil lurking in the depths of the earth. It is a shadowy force that can subtly manifest itself in the minds of humans who have been struck down by grief and loss, by offering to grant their hearts' desire. However, the granting of the "heart's desire" is not by turning the wish to reality; rather, by ensnaring the human consciousness in a web of dreamful fantasy, the Nanashii preys on its victims' souls. But the unfortunate people do not die, at least not physically. They live their lives in a twilight land of dreams, a perfect world where their unfulfilled hopes and wishes come true… a perfect world that exists only in their consciousness.
It is not known why this being of the dark is simply called 'nameless,' as most spiritual experts are undecided in their views. Some are of the opinion that the power of the Nanashii is in its name and that it is the mention of the name which completes the absorption of its soul-prey. While other views vary, it is clear that very little is known about this demonic entity; even our most ancient texts carry only fleeting and arbitrary information about this.
There was a revival of interest in this piece of folklore ten years ago, brought about by the eminent spiritualist, Katayama Goemon of Kagashima, and had religious scholars trying to decipher the few stray references found in historical records and books like One Hundred Autumns by that worthy Chinese Court historian of the Yuan Dynasty, Guo Buwei. It is unfortunate, that after the horrific road accident six years later which claimed the life of his only child and almost the entire Hayashi family (the Hayashi of the Fujita corporation), Katayama-sama has become a recluse in the strictest sense; his whereabouts remain unknown and there are doubts whether he still resides in Japan. His house near the Kagashima Shinto shrine is derelict, and the shrine itself is in urgent need of repairs. Had he continued his work of translations and investigation of ancient legends, it is certain much more would have come to light about the Nanashii.
Taka snorted. It was amazing how just anyone could write anything and pass it off to a newspaper. And the editor had no more better sense but he had to publish such drivel! 'Cultural interest' indeed!
Fuming with righteous anger, he folded the newspaper up and threw it on the table. The Nanashii sounded suspiciously like a vampire, and he strongly suspected that the writer drew his inspiration from that over-done fictional creature. There were many more scarier things in the world, things more real, more evil, like Tenkou for that matter.
Miaka was still on the phone. He could now hear her questioning the availability of certain varieties of food in the mountains, and he imagined Yui on the other end consoling his wife on that worrying aspect. Taka's smile lingered as Miaka's cheerful, girlish tones rose and fell in the next room, not listening to the words but taking in the golden music of her voice.
"Da… da," his son cooed, attracting his attention. The young father followed his child's pointing finger, and lavishly praised the infantine architectural marvel he had accomplished with plastic bricks.
Evening air stole breathlessly into the apartment, and the warm light, now dissolving into the gloom, threw dark shadows on the floor.
The edges of the folded newspaper lifted with the blowing wind, revealing the photograph of a person which Sukunami Taka had missed earlier and would see never again.
It was unmistakably an earlier picture of the man he had run into by the steps of the library; bald, shabby, and disreputable in appearance. Clutching something close to his chest.
Printed by the article on the Nanashii, the picture carried the caption "Katayama Goemon-file photograph, 1994."
Part III
While Sukunami Taka relaxed in his apartment, doubly blessed and secure with happiness and contentment, a lone man with a bundle trudged up the lesser streets of Kagashima that led to an abandoned Shinto Shrine. It was just as well that he appeared ragged and nondescript, blending into the crowd; none of the people who went by paid him any attention, and blank anonymity was what suited his purpose.
With his face twisted with an emotion hardly imaginable, an emotion akin to morbid fear, and somehow reflecting a desperate longing… Katayama Goemon walked towards his destination, his pace ever steady, eyes fixed on the path that wound before him. A sickly glow glimmered faintly on his shaven head; the crescent moon seemed unable to cut through the darkness of the heavens.
Gradually, the flow of humanity thinned and then petered out. The roads were devoid of traffic and the sounds of the city were replaced by an occasional hooting of owls. His own footsteps echoed harshly in the silent, brooding, night. Then through the murky darkness, the distinct shape of the shrine slowly began to emerge. Striding through the open gates, past the numerous decaying gardens that lay hidden in the shadows, Katayama Goemon stopped before the massive wooden doors of a temple set into the grounds. Not a sound came with the wind, except a faint sigh that stood at the very edge of hearing, wordlessly whispering the endless secrets of the night.
The outside world, the world beyond the shrine-gates ceased to exist, as seconds rolled into minutes; time passing with the wind; grains of sand falling endlessly into the oblivion of eternity.
The temple doors remained closed.
He stood motionless as one carved of stone, waiting for the inevitable to happen, but could one see through his constantly shifting thoughts? Perhaps Katayama Goemon heard in the breeze voices of the past, voices that would never be, phantom-voices. Perhaps in the play of moonlight and shadow, a familiar ghost danced into his vision, painfully close, but never straying to touch. Perhaps he could see...
(… see the sunlight in her swirling hair as she would come running to greet him every evening; the fragrance of wild flowers as she bent over his shoulder to read through his dusty scrolls and books; her laughter, her laughter, music of the wind in the trees, Miya-chan, oh my Miya, all gone, gone…)
Then, without warning, the bells hung before the temple rang aloud as if pulled by invisible hands. Tearing through the trees and fallen leaves, a gust of wind seemed to physically collide with the doors, which slowly began to swing open revealing a black, unguessable, interior. Bells rang madly, the noise supposed to keep evil spirits at bay.
Katayama Goemon climbed up the stone steps and entered the temple. Night was everywhere, darkness washing over him as the chaotic waves of the sea. A loud shuddering breath escaped him, as if some unseen bond tying him had snapped, giving a sense of freedom. Sweat broke out on his forehead despite a cruel chill in the air.
And just as he well knew the unconscious beating of his heart, so did he know the presence that existed within that darkness, a presence as vast as the night and as ancient. A presence he had sought for in mouldy books and early scrolls for the better part of ten years, the object of pain-staking research all through his scholarly life.
How cruelly fitting that he should find it after losing her, Miya-chan, his very life, his only anchor in the world since the death of his wife at child-birth. Fitting, because it alone could restore she who had been snatched away from him. Life was not without a second chance, he meditated.
(But at what cost? Do I really know what I'm doing? A second chance at what cost?)
The presence, a nameless entity that existed without shape, spoke, breaking into his thoughts.
"Son… you have arrived."
Katayama Goemon flinched violently as one slapped, but held on to the precious bundle he even now clutched close to his heart.
Cold and dead, the words had floated out from the nothingness that lay around him, spoken by no breathing creature. Though he felt his mind and heart empty and as lifeless as that which just spoke, he was still not insensible to the enchantment that emanated around, a web of magic that was binding him in its threads, holding him captive. Captive for an endless time, forever.
But that captivity was a small price to pay, as his reward would be great, he told himself.
"If you have indeed brought what I desire, then thy reward will be great."
"Yes. I… I have it."
Invisible laughter, harsh and clear, mocked him. "Ah… how well are your thoughts revealed to me. You, mere mortal, do you comprehend what will follow the completion of our bargain?"
The middle-aged man trembled; the dead numbness he had so far felt inside and that had enabled him to maintain a tight grip over his emotions vanished, leaving him weak and helpless. As if unable to bear the weight of the shadowed menace, his knees buckled to the stone floor painfully where he remained, his head bowed low in what seemed like servitude. As Oukuda Einosuke had once bent his proud head a century ago, contemplating his end.
"I do not care… I do not care what happens to me. You have the book now… I have fulfilled my end of the bargain. It's been four years since she—you promised… you promised to return my child to me."
There was a silence as though Katayama Goemon's incoherent words were being pondered over. A single ray of moonlight slanted in through the open doors of the temple, particles of dust floating in the silvery luminescence. The shadows shifted indeterminately and settled closer to the still-bent man in, what looked like, a sinister part-embrace.
"Four years, four drops of water in the oceans of Time. Frail is Man, unable to bear such short partings, but I do not complain… sweet is thy sorrow born out of love for a dead child... it strengthens me…"
"Stop… please…"
The voice continued in a tone almost wondering, puzzled, as an illusion of human emotion crept into it.
"Love is the downfall of mortals from the Dawn of Time… love for your child is what brought you here. She still lives in you, does she not, dictating your dreams and waking thoughts? Tell me, my son. Tell me how you still see her in your mind, in your deepest fantasies, in your nightmares… has she the angelic beauty you loved so much? Or do you see the shattered face mixed with blood and bone? Flesh of your flesh, spirit of your own… "
Katayama Goemon closed his eyes to a familiar image; an image he had seen every moment for four years, playing over and over until his mind had begun to unhinge. The accident in which his only child had died, going one moment from gay laughter to death-silence; the sickening crunch of metal on metal; the screams of loss and separation, his screams; the smell (oh the very smell) of blood and bereavement, and the loneliness… the loneliness was worst of all.
But this Being of the Dark, it would unite him with her, (his child, his child, his darling…) unite him with her, for a price—a price which he was willing to pay twice over.
And amid the terror that surrounded him, the man smiled. The shadows shifted again, doubtful, hesitant.
"Do you not heed the price I demand of thee?"
"It is well worth it. A man cannot live without his heart," Katayama Goemon said, lifting his head to stare into the dark. "What you will do to me makes no difference… I am already dead."
Katayama Goemon staggered to his feet and stood erect, unafraid, expectant. His shadow cast by the weak moonlight blended into the black emptiness. Drawing the bundle out of his coat, he unwrapped the cloth covering to reveal a slender red-backed, unremarkable, book. The words 'Shin Jin Ten Chi Sho', the Universe of the Four Gods, was etched onto the cover in striking black calligraphy.
"Here is what you seek. Unite me with my daughter."
Willfully forgetting the years of stealth and search he had spent in locating that desired article, fully aware of the enormity of his action, Katayama Goemon, the renowned scholar, the spiritualist, he held out the book he had clutched for so long and watched it absorbed away from his hands. If this simple action would set a train of events causing two universes to collide in their courses of fate and destiny, altering the balance of good and evil, so be it. Katayama Goemon did not care. He would have cared very much once, but that man was no more. The ruinous fall from a scholar-spiritualist to a thief had destroyed what was left of his conscience.
"The Shi Jin Ten Chi Sho is finally in my possession… the path to the land from which I was banished lies open before me now… Vengeance shall be mine, mine after an eternity of exile… Did Genbu think this earth would hold forever one as I? I come, Black Warrior, I come for my revenge."
Demonic laughter hissed out again, loud and triumphant.
A soft rain began to fall outside, rain whispering against the falling leaves, rain sounding like the sigh of a thousand spirits. The fragrance of the wet earth rose into the night air with all the heady aroma of burning incense. And perhaps hidden from sight, hidden away from the mortal world, the specters of Oukuda Takiko and those bound to her watched the unfolding of the sad drama faintly reminiscent of the one that had occurred almost one hundred years ago, in a small house beside a cherry tree in Morioka.
"You have undone the first chains binding me to this earthly plane of existence. My son, my deliverer, you shall find peace at last. Let us complete our bargain…"
With a suddenness that could never be expected, the shadows rose, swelled, and enfolded the entire temple. Katayama Goemon closed his eyes, willing away the panic that welled inside him; he was, after all, receiving exactly what he had desired.
(At what cost? What will happen to me?)
Screwing his eyes shut, he resolutely shut off the adamant inner voice that persisted in pointless moralizing. He could hear the silken threads of witchcraft twining around him, as a song, a chant half-whispered, echoed through the haunted recesses of the temple.
"Come closer… come unto me… merge into me, let us become one, inseparable till all time ceases, till the moon falls as silver dust into the frozen seas … let me give thee thy despair…"
The darkness in his eyes began to take on a familiar, beloved form. Katayama Goemon relaxed into a single sigh of fulfillment and ecstasy as four years of agony finally came to an end. Truly, he reflected for a moment before absolute happiness overwhelmed him, truly his reward was great.
"Otou-san, I've been waiting for you…" the soft voice of a young girl became audible in his ears alone.
(Is it you? Miya-chan?)
"Nanashii… I come to you," he breathed. Those were the last words he would ever speak as mortal man, before succumbing to the Night from which there was no return.
"Hear my name, for in it lies thy salvation."
There was no answer as Katayama Goemon entered the land everlasting, where ghosts dance in the green bamboo forests unseen by human eyes.
xxx
A shard of silver reappeared behind clouds scuttling hurriedly across the night skies, tendrils of wispy darkness obscuring and then revealing the face of the setting moon-fragment. In a few minutes it would be dawn, when morning with its sane, unimaginative light washed away the nightmares and delusions of the damned. A distant clock tower, the same which had caused Sukunami Taka to hurry home earlier the previous evening, announced the pre-dawn hour to the sleeping world.
The Kagashima Shinto shrine stood silent, abandoned, in the pale wavering light. There was no sign of human habitation anywhere, and the decaying grounds with its overgrown gardens loomed forbiddingly in the ghostly illumination. It was hard to believe that the shrine's uneasy solitude had ever been disturbed.
It was hard to believe that a few hours back Katayama Goemon had entered but not left, and would never leave, the very same shrine.
A quiet breeze stirred about the lifeless temple, blowing over the dusty, cracked, stone floor, whirling the age-old accumulated grime and dirt along its wake before it stilled abruptly, as if giving way for something more powerful.
Just as flood-waters subside after a raging flood, the shadows at the temple slowly withdrew, molding itself, concentrating into a particular human shape.
And out of the shadows walked the very image of Katayama Goemon.
There were no traces of the former despair on his face; wiped smooth of the memories of tragedy, he appeared to be a younger man, vital and strong. He spoke aloud, but it was not the voice of Katayama Goemon.
"Genbu must suffer, suffer as I did for the countless centuries he buried me in the Underworld… Never shall I rest again till he is sealed beneath the ice-mountains of Hokkan… The Four Countries shall know only one god… the God of the Shadows… and they shall worship the Darkness that is me… and my name be the sole prayer on their lips…"
The Shi Jin Ten Chi Sho lay heavy in his hands. Eyes that were so alike to the former spiritualist gleamed in anticipation with an inner unholy light. Even as he watched, the pages of the book fluttered restlessly with some unknown urgency. And with the same abruptness with which the temple had been engulfed in, the rampant alien shadows disappeared, vanishing with the form of Katayama Goemon.
"I come, Black Warrior, I come for my revenge…" The words faded into the dark emptiness.
The book fell to the stone floor as the hands that had held it melted away, smoke-like, as it departed for the world ruled by the four gods.
In the distant horizon, the pale fingers of dawn began to touch the first buildings and rooftops with its morning radiance.
A single bell tinkled softly outside the temple.
xxx
It is strange, how some stories go on for ever; beginnings bound with the finish, new life hidden in death. Only, as the tale continues, characters inevitably change— some might return, albeit for a brief period, but others are forgotten through the ageless time that spans an entire Universe. People exist and then perish, taking to their graves the memories of a lifetime, hoping that their deeds live after them.
But does it?
What is one grain of sand in the shifting sands of eternity?
What is one priestess in the Universe of the Four gods?
When Oukuda Takiko perished for a country she had come to love, she had hoped that her sacrifice would not be in vain, and that her endeavors would keep Hokkan safe from any external threat... forever. And so it did. The Northern realm was effectively protected by its Guardian Beast through the ensuing centuries.
But even 'forever' has its limits.
Little did the first priestess know how events form a pattern, a single pattern that is repeated in the ever-widening tapestry of the universe, a pattern weaving desire, temptation, betrayal, revenge, war and death unto itself, a pattern spread across the countless human lives it takes for its own.
All history is but a record of this pattern of existence. And as it is said countless times, history repeats itself, be it concerned with the Phoenix, Dragon, Tiger, or the Turtle.
Hidden beyond the distant reaches of eternity, the wheels of Fate interminably continue in their juggernaut movement, crushing through the roads of Time.
The Book waits in darkness, awaiting the approach of she, chosen of the gods, who will open its secrets once again.
The Black Warrior will soon arise from his years of slumber to vanquish his Nameless Enemy and the once-extinguished stars shall shine with new light…
And once again unfolds a legend as the story, both ancient and modern, continues…
xxxxxx
Coming next – Chapter I : Moon-Jewel