Chapter Seventeen
Central Japan, 1183 A.D.
Oyasu shivered in her threadbare garments as she struggled through the snow, her wooden geta, or shoes, causing her to slip often. Her husband, Isaburo, a woodcutter, had taken a load of wood into the village, to trade for food during this harsh winter. Elsewhere on the island, the Minamoto and Taira clans, both branches of the Imperial family, were locked in a fierce war for control, and Oyasu thanked Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy, that their poor village had not been dragged into it, as many others had been, to their sorrow. But when the great lords, and their faithful samurai fought, the poor could only bend like reeds in the wind, and pray they were passed by.
The small set of tracks she was following stretched on before her. She prayed to Jizo, the God of Children, that she found her little boy Muso, soon. The child had crept from the house to find his father, not knowing he had gone to the village. Oyasu knew she had to find him soon, before the setting of the dim sun, well aware of how cold the winter night would be for a such a little boy, no matter how warmly dressed he might be in his father's cast off clothing. But her Muso feared few things, and her stout little man often boasted of the things he would do, weaned as he was on the tales of fierce samurai, and noble quests.
Oyasu knew better. Like her husband and child, she had been born poor, and poor she would remain. She only asked the Shinto gods for good fortune and healthy children, and thanked them daily for her good man, Isaburo, who treated her as well as he could, and worked hard for her and little Muso. Childbearing was hard, with only the old women of the village to help, but she longed to give her husband many stout sons, and maybe one or two beautiful little girls.
The fresh fallen snow was beautiful in the light of the setting sun, its small crystals sparkling like jewels. But the lengthening shadows of the trees, and the rapidly chilling air, promised that the night would be bitterly cold. Oyasu loved to be in the forest in the day. It was very beautiful. But the night time was the time of ghosts, when the kami's would walk abroad, the spirits of rock and tree, of lake and mountain.
The young woman shivered, not just from the cold. Small sounds came from the thick brush around her, sounds of light laughter, throaty grunts. Bells tinkled, just out of sight. Massive figures moved dimly around her, never close enough to be seen clearly. Oyasu trembled, but staggered on.
The landscape perversely grew brighter, as the yuki-akari, or snow light, grew in intensity, the ghostly glow outlining the dry bark of the leafless tress, and the thick boughs of the small pines. The trees shuddered in the flickering light, their branches seeming to twitch like skeletal fingers.
The dry snow crunched under her geta. The slight breeze picked up, ruffling her thin clothing. Faint cries attracted her attention, that came from the starry sky, the home of the gods. Oyasu feared to listen, as she might recognize a voice. An old saying told her by her own old mother came to mind: All those who die by the snow and cold, become spirits of the snow and cold.
The small mocking noises from the brush faded away. A stillness filled the chill, crisp air. Oyasu feared to make the slightest of sounds.
A image appeared, floating over the drifting snow without a sound. A Lady, of long black hair and eyes filled with deep pools of darkness, came toward her, her long white robes of the finest silk soundlessly brushing the snow beneath her. Her thin arms effortlessly carried a heavy burden, a lump of cloth like that which swaddled a child in her arms. Her narrow pale face seemed burdened with an infinite sorrow, even as her crimson lips quirked in a faint smile which seemed almost cruel and mocking. She offered the bundle to the peasant woman.
Fearing the gift, Oyasu yet had to know if the bundle was her own small child, and her hands shaking, reached out and gently held it. She gasped. Sharp, biting cold raced from her fingers, up her arms, toward her heart. The small white face of the child in the bundle appeared, the eyes frozen shut an eternity before, but still alive, still aware. The Lady's hands reached deeply into the woman's body, pulling her spirit free of its mortal flesh, and flinging it into the cloudless sky.
Oyasu screamed soundlessly, hearing her scream repeated by the countless throng she was now a part of . I would have bargained with you! Save my son! She faintly heard an emotionless reply. Child, you had nothing to bargain with. You had already fallen. A faint emotion now tinged the cold voice, the empathy of one mother to another. Your son was never in any danger, he meet his father, and lives. Their grief is the price paid. A deep sorrow was the last thing Oyasu was to hear from her. There is always a Price.
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Quinn slowly woke up, her tired mind protesting, her stiff body aching. Her lips were chapped, her skin felt dry. As she sat up, brushing the hair out of her face, several strands broke off in her hand. Her long red tresses, her crowning glory, were dry and lifeless. She stared numbly for a few minutes at the dry strands of hair, unable to focus.
"Quinn, didn't you hear what I said? What did you want to order?"
Quinn shook her head, staring around her. She and the rest of the Fashion Club, sat around one of the tables at Chez Pierre, Lawndale's own fancy French restaurant. Each girl was wearing her best formal gown. Around them, the other diners were engrossed in their own conversations.
She stared at the other girls. In spite of their exquisite gowns, they were all looking haggard, gaunt. Their formerly soft skin was pasty, flaking. Their once well tended hair was brittle, with strands breaking off on their bare shoulders. Tiffany stared numbly down at the tabletop. Sandi was propped up in her own chair, her eyes glassy, her breathing coming in rapid pants. Stacy sat primly on her own velvet chair, her long brown hair flowing down her pale skin, her bright, ruby red lips frowning. Her gown, unlike the strapless sheaths the other girls were wearing, was loose and flowing, almost like fog. Brief and fleeting glimpses of her perfect body shone through. Stacy's face seemed to flicker through changes as well. Helpless fright became a cool contempt, followed by an infinite despair.
In place of her usual waiter, Daria stood next to Quinn's chair. Her face was at it's most immobile. Instead of her usual drab outfit she was dressed in a waiters tuxedo.
"Since Mademoiselle Morgendorffer seems unable to make a choice, might I make a suggestion?"
Quinn croaked out, "Please do."
"In that case, Mademoiselle, I suggest the Steak Tartare, a la Jake. It's our chef's specialty."
Quinn nodded weakly. Daria collected the menus, and said to Tiffany, "Mademoiselle Blum-Deckler, if you'll come with me?"
Tiffany staggered to her feet, and meekly followed Daria out the swinging doors to the kitchen. The formerly snug fitting gown hung limply on her now bony frame. The contrast of then and now confused Quinn.
Isn't this Stacy's birthday party? But why is Daria my waiter? She despises this place! It must be a dream! But why did Tiffany have to go to the kitchen? Steak Tartare a la Jake? My poor dad loves to cook, but is the kind of man that can literally burn water. Why would I dream of him as a fine chef?
Quinn shied away from meeting Stacy's eyes. Rather than the soft, almost doe-eyed look she normally had, her eyes were pools of darkness now. Sandi looked like a corpse, her hair white in places, falling out in rough patches. Her skin was in even worse shape than Quinn's, yellowed, and flaking badly. Only her quick, rapid panting showed she was still alive.
Daria soon returned, pushing a large cart loaded with covered platters. Their father, Jake followed her out of the kitchen, smiling broadly, looking immaculate in his starched white chefs uniform.
"Hi ya, kiddo? Ready for your old dad's best dish now, are you?"
"Isn't, isn't Steak Tartare just raw meat?", Quinn painfully forced out of her dry throat.
"Mademoiselle is misinformed. The flesh is simmered with smolletts and capers, for a taste most pleasing to the palate." Daria said tonelessly, as she placed a covered platter at each place, even at Tiffany's empty chair. With a flourish, Daria removed the cover, revealing a dish of slightly browned bits of flesh, still oozing reddish drops, before moving to each place, and uncovering the platters there.
Quinn gagged, but Stacy started right in on her dish. Quinn's arms and legs were so heavy that she was unable to get up.
"Quinn, I know you're hungry," Stacy said, "And Sandi doesn't look too good either. Are you sure you won't eat?"
Quinn shook her head in mute denial, and a sudden fear, as Tiffany's absence began to make sense .
'Where, where is Tiffany, Stacy?"
Rather than answering, Stacy spoke to Daria.
"I think we're ready for the last course, now."
Her face still immobile, Daria removed Quinn's platter, and replaced it with the last one, still covered.
"Please, Daria, Stacy, don't do this to me, please, stop this."
"Are you sure, sis?" Daria said, "What if it's the only way you can live? You have a bright future, you know, but it could all end right now." Daria's face lost it's impassiveness, became warm and concerned.
"Yes, Quinn," Stacy said, delicately wiping her mouth with the white linen napkin. A stray drop of blood ran down her chin. "It's only poor dumb Tiffany, after all. She has even less future than Sandi, here." she motioned to Sandi, still propped up in her chair.
"All you have to do is take one small bite, just a taste, and the future is still yours,"Stacy continued, offering a small bite of meat on her fork. "You still want to go to college, don't you? "
Quinn closed her eyes, tightly, moaning.
"This isn't real, you're not real, Stacy wouldn't do this, Daria wouldn't do this!"
Sandi stirred for the first time, her face still frozen, a deep almost echoing whisper from deep inside her shrunken body.
"Are you sure, child? Are you really sure? Don't forget, there is always a Price."