Chapter two is here! After establishing that something is not right with the Ikkou (traveling party), I decided on something of a break. This will, perhaps, be a little more in theme with how the Ikkou usually interacts with each other and the world around them. As some readers have already guessed, the story's conflict centers around Goku, and because of this, I leave him just shy of the spotlight. There will be plenty with Goku in it, but rather than inundate you with the details right away, I wanted to give everyone else their turn.
This is, in a lot of ways, Gojyo's chapter so far. There's a silken undertone that I think belongs to his character, and a more direct method of storytelling here that makes it his. Like Sanzo, Goku and Hakkai, things run more smoothly when you don't take the half-youkai at face value. As candid and frivolous as he may seem at first glance, he really is a deep character. I enjoy writing about him, and I hope to do a lot more in the future as I become more comfortable with voice of the story.
Mahjongg-pai is a term used for the playing chips decorated with images and symbols used in the game of Mahjongg.
Rated PG for mild language. Hakkai's opinion of God is taken from the manga, they are not my own religious views.
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"Excuse me, do you have any vacancies?"
The inn's attendant, a young woman whose black hair had been thrown back into a braid coiled behind her head, looked up from the guest ledger and smiled uneasily.
Given that the sight she is encountered with is four possible guests, all strangers dressed in hooded cloaks with sunglasses, I do not blame her. Rather, I admire her tact. But this is perhaps a characteristic rather typical for me to find little fault with; the ability to smile.
"All four of you?" inquires she.
"Yes, please," I reply, and notice out of the corner of my eye that Gojyo has joined me at the front desk.
As the woman slides the ledger towards me, lying open to a page half-new, I fall silent and only take the pen cradled there. Predictably, Gojyo takes advantage of this respite in polite business transactions (in this case, renting a room) to … get to know the staff better.
"Hey woman, what's your name?"
I notice the last entry was written so long ago the ink has begun to fade. This village doesn't see much business these days.
"Eh?" says the woman, surprised.
"Your name," Gojyo repeats, and his voice is a purr when it passes my shoulder to address the ebon-haired woman. "Just want to know the name of such a pretty girl working so hard here by herself."
I begin to write out the usual aliases, lest news of the famous (or rather, infamous) Sanzo traveling party draw youkai to this small mountain village.
"Ah," the woman sounds politely nervous. "My husband runs this inn, and…"
She trails off. I can almost hear Gojyo's hopes deflating. I choose this moment to interrupt.
"I'm sorry, but could I ask you something about the room?" If I sound earnest, this is my own fault for being careless. Gojyo steps back and lights a cigarette; I can hear the easy stride of his boots on the wood of the floor, the flint of a lighter. He's trying to be nonchalant.
"Of course," says the woman, who has started to take the ledger back. I give her the pen.
"How many windows does the room have?"
Confusion is written as neatly as print on mahjongg-pai on her features and for the first time I realize her eyes are hazel. I laugh.
And apologize. "I'm sorry," but to say it's a strange question again would only draw attention to it. Gojyo must have returned to where Sanzo is standing by the door, because I hear the low buzz of commotion that typically signals when Goku and the kappa will start bickering.
This is a familiar pattern, and I do not mind.
"It's no matter," I quickly say when the woman's gaze starts to glance their way. I can hear Goku complain that he's hungry and I don't have to look to verify that this at least is a sign he's back to his usual composure.
She glances down at the ledger. "Are all of you brothers?"
"Well…"
I only smile, and I am saved from lying when there is a crash behind me and a burst of raised voices. Now, I don't believe in God, this is a thing I've held steadfast to since my childhood, but I'm thanking a nameless one for the fact that we've already paid.
"—t least I'm not hitting on married women, ero-gappa!"
"—ho said you could eavesdrop, baka-zaru?!"
"…Oi."
"Don't call me a stupid monkey, sexually harassing kappa!"
"Then stop flapping your trap, saru!"
"I'm not a saru, red cockroach!"
"OI."
Indeed. Things seem to have returned to normal. I quickly ask when dinner will be served of the now very bewildered female attendant.
The inn was indeed empty save for us. By luck and timing, the usual locals who drop in to visit for a fine meal were all occupied with other activities this evening, so we had the dining room to ourselves, and could afford to shed our disguises with little concern that our appearance would start any rumors.
I guess it's foolish to claim one does not believe in God when one's meals and living expenses are paid for on a golden card bestowed upon the priest by the Three Aspects of Buddha, but there really is a fine line there. It's one thing to grow up being taught of a benevolent, omnipotent, paternal God who would destroy all that opposed His followers with but one sweep of His hand; it is entirely another to have Quan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy, step in through the door, lip lock with your former roommate of three years and attempt the same to a wounded and unconscious Sanzo as a form of Heavenly blood transfusion.
I don't believe in God. I can be a smiling fool for it.
If God is the sun, we have but one, and that one is sitting here at the table working on his third can of beer.
He's not taking supplicants. He has his hands full of three irreverent followers.
There is only one thing I pride myself on when planning out our subsequent destinations and it is not on quick progress to our goal. It is - and this will never reach the history books, of that I am sure – the realization that any rumors or entries in tourist books claiming that a certain inn carried excellent food and good wine were indeed true.
Gojyo and Goku will eat anything put before them. If Sanzo approves, so much the better. I can claim I'm only here for the wine, and all four of us have ready excuses for being in the company of the other in case of arguments.
After the tension of the last leg of our journey to this village, it is a relief to see everyone, for the most part, back to their usual patterns of behavior.
"Hey, Hakkai."
I turn with a smile ready at the corners of my mouth. It is Gojyo, who pats a fresh pack of cigarettes into his palm, looks at this instead of me. By this I know he has something serious to ask, so I stop walking.
Goku, sated on the recent meal, scampers past us in the narrow hallway to catch up with Sanzo, who objects to the youth's exuberant sleeve-tugging with a long-suffering stoicism that suggests he too was not about to complain over Goku's return to his usual good humor.
Gojyo is tapping a cigarette free of the pack now, so I am courteous in my curiosity. "Would you like me to wait?"
"Don't you do enough of that?"
I don't know why he has suddenly become confrontational, until I can see the tension in his shoulders. I can't remember a time today when it had left them in the comfortable slouch he usually assumes, and realize dinner's normalcy had been the kappa playing at being the swindler. For a moment, I am ashamed.
"Ha ha ha." I turn my eyes away, down, and smile. "Maybe."
"Nf," mutters Gojyo around his cigarette. He stops to light it, and after a ceiling-ward exhale he repeats, "Maybe."
This is a language apart from normal speech. You live long enough in the company of another, and entire years of conversation melt together until morsels of innocuous phrases have a meaning of their own. Entirely different. He leans against the wall instead of me, and I am grateful because the hallway is narrow.
And the local staff would get incriminating ideas.
I listen to the minute crackle of tobacco burning away through a long inhale, and soon I find the cigarette offered into my view. I blink at it, and then at Gojyo, who turns crimson eyes away and speaks while he leaves the burnt offering in his fingers. I take it. He knows I do not often smoke, so I wonder why he offers now.
"That droopy-eyed monk changed our check-out date."
"Sorry?"
"We're leaving the day after tomorrow."
This is a warning in itself: Unless there is some danger ahead, or some special precaution we must take, or we're recovering from a particularly unpleasant youkai encounter, we always leave after one day's rest. I try to remember when or how he could have changed our arrangements, that perhaps he could have given some sign of his reasons while doing so, but I must have not been present.
But Sanzo had lingered a moment behind while we had proceeded to drop our meager belongings off in the room, else I would have been a little skeptical. But, then again, this is Gojyo. "The day after tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Thought I'd let you know." Gojyo retrieves his cigarette from my fingers and brushes past me as he leaves the hallway. "I'm taking a bath. See ya."
I glance at my fingers, painted gold by the lamplight overhead. So he means to let me ask Sanzo about the change in plans.
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