Youth
BY JAMES WRIGHT
Strange bird,
His song remains secret.
He worked too hard to read books.
He never heard how Sherwood Anderson
Got out of it, and fled to Chicago, furious to free himself
From his hatred of factories.
My father toiled fifty years
At Hazel-Atlas Glass,
Caught among girders that smash the kneecaps
Of dumb honyaks.
Did he shudder with hatred in the cold shadow of grease?
Maybe. But my brother and I do know
He came home as quiet as the evening.
He will be getting dark, soon,
And loom through new snow.
I know his ghost will drift home
To the Ohio River, and sit down, alone,
Whittling a root.
He will say nothing.
The waters flow past, older, younger
Than he is, or I am.
Years passed like swimming underwater, drowning. Every day Youko Kurama drowned, and what little had been personable and warm inside him died.
It was only later that he could think about Kuronue's death, beyond those brief, flashing images that tore through Kurama's brain. At length, acquisition of power became his goal, rags stuffed in the cracks of the overflowing cask of his soul, to try to stem the leaks. Though he'd never admit it, this was a tribute to Kuronue's memory. They'd wanted a territory. Youko would have it.
His first recruit to his new thieving band was Yomi, now grown to manhood.
Yomi's adoration of him was a nuisance. He was arrogant, hot-headed. He was also naive enough to believe that things would go on like this forever.
In 902 A.D., as the Gregorian Calendar parsed it, Youko Kurama halted the gang at a taverna in Byzantium. The Byzantine hostess was spiritually aware and still believed in the old gods, and blessing them in the names of her patron goddess, ushered them to the mosaic-lined courtyard where she dined them all for a pittance of silver on her best date wine, cheese-drenched omelettes and a dish of seared fish and spiced red lentils. After that the gang chatted, snacked on olives and figs, and tore hunks of bread to dip in oil or the communal pot of thick navy bean soup and crab meat.
Youko, pleased by his recent heist and relaxed by the warm sun and the good food, bought out the better parts of the hostess's wine cellar for a handsome fee.
The gang left in good cheer, and that night, having crossed a barrier and entered a secure hideout they kept in the area, Youko consented and allowed those not on watch for the night to get drunk, which the gang set about doing with alacrity.
Yomi had spent the day sullen, and drinking only made him more so. The revelry picked up, and several young members began carelessly to rut. Yomi watched them, ever more bitter, swaying subtly as he consumed more and more of the unwatered wine.
His eyes glinting madly with tears, he jumped up, drawing curious gazes, and stumbled to Kurama, who sipped the same small bowl he had taken at the beginning of the night, content with a small buzz in case of attack.
"Yomi, what ails you—" Kurama began, uncomfortable with his companion's tears, and at that moment, Yomi spat in his face.
"I love you," Yomi sobbed, baring his teeth and red-faced from drink. "You whore, you kitsune whore, I love you! I love you more than that dead bitch Kuronue ever could! Yet you'll sleep with anything, anyone, but you've never even taken me to bed! Not once! You pat me on my head and send me to sleep and I won't have it, I won't!"
Silence stretched, all the gang holding their breath.
"You," Kurama said finally, his voice a dangerous hiss as the gang quieted around them, "dare to call me a whore?"
Yomi was belligerently drunk, but he was not so far gone he didn't know, like any rabbit, to cower at the bark of a fox.
Youko stood to his full height, surprised to see he no longer towered over Yomi. The commanding aura he gave off more than made up for it, though.
"Down," Kurama growled.
Yomi trembled, paralyzed with fear, as Youko Kurama wielded a heavy, thornless whip, formed from a flower he pulled from his hair.
Seeing himself disobeyed, Youko Kurama kicked out Yomi's feet and swung him flat with a grip on his arm.
For some time, there was only the snaps and crackles of the fire's embers and the cracks of the whip, along with Yomi's pitiful wails.
When it was done, Yomi curled up far from the fire and bawled his eyes out, breath coming in hitches and sobs.
Youko, his rage cooled, decided a few things in that moment: that Kuronue was thrice the man Yomi was; that he'd have to remake the gang if he wanted to allow Yomi to regain face; that he would never fuck Yomi, if only to prove a point; and that if Yomi continued to overstep his bounds, he'd have him killed.
Yomi, in his immaturity, overstepped again not a decade later.
Youko Kurama made good on his silent promise.