Chapter Twenty
Island of Hokkiado, 672 A.D.
Minokichi shivered as he followed his master, old Mosako the woodcutter, through the blowing snow. Every day they made the five mile journey to the forest near their village, to cut the wood the old man sold. A wide river stood between them and the forest, and the young man always enjoyed the ride across on the ferryboat. It was late in the evening when they approached the ferry.
A great snowstorm had come up, surprising the weather-wise old man, who had seldom failed to predict a snowstorm. When they came in sight of the ferry landing, they saw that it had been moored on the far bank, with the ferryman gone. "Come, Minokichi," Mosaku said. "We can not go back to the village now. We shall stay in the ferryman's hut." The two men stumbled into the small hut. There was no brazier to make a fire, but the two laid down on the bare earth floor, still dressed in their reed rain-clothing.. The old man fell asleep immediately. But Minokichi stayed awake, listening to the blowing wind and the hiss of the snow outside .wind. The tired young man slowly fell asleep.
His mind drifted though vague, unremembered dreams, until he was awoken by a fall of snow across his face.. He felt very cold, stiff, and was unable to do anything besides to turn his head toward the door. Shining through the cracks of the crude hut was a pearly white light, and in it, he saw the door slowly open, though he had barred it himself. A figure of a woman appeared at the door, the most beautiful woman the young woodcutter had ever seen. Her hair was black, long and silky. Her skin was as pale as milk, with lips as red as a cherry, and her eyes ... Minokichi shuddered. Her eyes were deep and empty pools of darkness. She stood there for a moment, staring at the two. She approached old Mosaku and bent over him, her face close to his. Her breath left her lips like a white fog, The old man started awake, staring at her with eyes wide in terror, his own warm breath being sucked from his frail chest. He literally froze to the floor, eyes still wide. She slowly turned toward Minokichi, floating above the floor. One corner of Minokichi's mind was able to see that she had no feet underneath her pure white kimono..She hovered over him, her icy cold breath like a blast of the coldest wind, and they stared at each other for a long minute.
Finally, she spoke, her thin voice like the hiss of the blowing snow outside. "Hear me, child of man. I had intended to take your breath, as I took that of the old man. But you are so very young and handsome. I will not kill you, as I have taken the lives of so many others. But hear me well! You must never speak of me to any others, or I will take your life as the words leave your lips!"
Her figure slowly faded away as he stared, until he could see it no more. The light from the snow outside vanished, as from a quenched flame.
The young man laid there, staring until he recalled her words. He fumbled in the dark before he found the hand of Mosaku, which felt like it had been carved of ice. "Master! Mosaku! Please answer!" Touching the old mans face, he traced his wide open, immobile eyes, and passed out in a faint.
He was awakened the next morning by the ferryman, who tended him until he could return to the village. Mosaku was buried some distance away, so that his spirit might not haunt the landing. Minokichi took over his masters dutys, becoming a respected member of the village community.
The year passed slowly, as time does for a young man. Minokichi, was walking back from the forest, a huge load of firewood on his back. The first few snowflakes of the new winter were falling from the grey sky. The leafless trees reminded him of old Mosaku's death the previous winter, and the young man thought once again of the strange dream he had, the beautiful woman who had slain his master. Hearing the scrape of a pair of wooden shoes on the hard packed dirt road, he looked up, to see a peasant girl, in threadbare robes walking beside him. She smiled shyly at him, and he gasped at her beauty, almost forgetting his manners. Finally, his voice came back to him, and he stuttered, "I beg your forgiveness! I did not mean to stare so rudely! I am Minokichi, the woodcutter of the village which lies ahead.
She answered quietly, as a modest woman should, but with a mingled hint of pride and sadness. For just a moment, Minokichi almost thought that here was no common peasant girl, but a great lady.
"Well spoken, Minokichi the woodcutter. My name is Yuki. I am going to Yedo, where I have family, and I wish to find employment as a servant."
They walked alongside each other for a long time in silence. The feeling that he knew this woman in some way nagged at Minokichi's mind. But her quiet, almost regal beauty calmed him, attracted him. Finally he said, "Yedo is still very far, and you should not have to sleep in the woods. Please, I beg you, come to my house, where I live with my mother. It will do her good to see a new face under our roof, and you may leave in the morning, refreshed and warm."
Minokichi's mother was charmed by the young maiden, and it was she who begged her to stay for just a few more days, seeing the light in her son's eyes when looking at this modest young woman. Minokichi finally married Yuki, and a long and happy marriage followed. Yuki never did explain about where she had come from, and Minokichi loved her so much he didn't ask. Yuki presented her husband with ten strong and handsome children. All were much fairer of skin than was normal. But even the pain of childbearing, and the hardships of a woodcutters wife never dimmed her beauty, and the other women in the village began to speak of her spitefully, though never openly, and in some fear. Still, when Minokichi's mother died, her last words were in praise of Yuki, and her eulogy was echoed by many of those in the district, whose wives felt some shame for their harsh words.
Late one night, after many years, during the fall of the first snow, Minokichi entered his modest house, to see Yuki sewing, the light of a paper lantern outlining her beautiful face. The night that he spent in the ferryman's hut came into his memory, and he spoke of it for the first time in thirty years.
"Yuki, seeing you like that, with the light shining behind you, reminds me of the night my master, Mosaku, died. A beautiful woman entered the hut, with the palest skin, dressed all in white, who floated like a cloud, killed him with her ice cold breath. I am sure she was some strange spirit of the snow and cold, but tonight, you seem just like her!"
Yuki put down her knitting, and looked at her husband steadily
"Oh, my husband, whom I have loved for these past thirty years, did not this spirit tell you that if you ever spoke of her, she would slay you as the words left your lips?"
"Why, yes, my wife, but how do you know that? I had not yet told you of that!"
"My husband, Minokichi, do you recall the meaning of my name, common as it is?"
"Yes, it means ... " Minokichi's words caught in his suddenly dry mouth, his heart hammering in his chest, "Snow ... !"
The hiss of blowing snow filled the cabin. A horrible smile filled the face of this woman whom her had lived, who had borne their children. She towered above him in the small hut.
"It was I, the Yuki-onna, who came to you silently that night, and killed your master! Faithless man, you have broken your promise to me, and I should slay you, and all who dwell here in the village. If it were not for our sleeping children all would die!"
Her face became still, impassive.
"Take good care of our children, woodcutter, for if they ever have cause of complaint by your hand, I will know of it, and return on a night when the snow falls!" She changed into a white mist, and shrieking in an unbearable pain, passed out of the hut through the smoke hole, never to be seen again. Minokichi never explained what had happened to her, taking good care of his children, and he never remarried.
Daria tossed restlessly in her bed. Even under a pile of blankets she was still cold. Ironically, the thick padding still on her walls made her room one of the warmest in the house. The power had been going on and off all night, interrupting the heat in the big house. Daria and her father had shut off the heat in any room which didn't have water pipes in them that they could. Helen had fallen asleep in exhaustion on the couch, and Daria had helped her dad take her up the stairs to bed. Daria knew better than to tell her high-strung father about the ghostly happenings she had experienced and heard.
The day's events moved slowly through her sleepy mind. Linda's hating, hurting face. Her venomous speech about Sandi and her career. Sandi's ghostly, ghastly appearance in the bathroom mirror, her body gaunt, her belly swollen. Swollen with what? Daria thought. Nobody said anything about her being pregnant. Not that Quinn would have told me. She always liked to keep her friends and family separate. But still, Mom would have told me, and somebody would really have made a fuss about an expectant mother missing. Not that I could ever see Sandi Griffin with a baby. Wouldn't be too fashionable, after all. She'd be the kind to have a surrogate mother for the conception, and a nanny to raise the child.
Now, Quinn and Stacy I could see as mothers. Quinn would be a lot like mom, totally in charge of everything. Stacy would be in a constant state of anxiety, worrying about everything under the sun. They'd really be a handful for any man that married them. I can not believe I just thought that! I can't even imagine Tiffany being married. It's so hard to get her attention! "Does this wedding dress make me look fa-at?"
Daria shook her head, irritated with herself for her mental rambling. Reluctantly crawling out from under the bedcovers, she hurried down the cold hall to her parent's bathroom. Pointedly not looking at the mirrored medicine cabinet door, she reluctantly took one of her mothers sleeping pills, washing it down with a cup of water. She stood there, staring at the back of the cabinet door.
This is silly. It's just a mirror. If I look at it, I'll only see myself. Red eyes, rumpled hair, and puffy face. Not exactly something I'd want to see in the morning, but a totally normal picture. But what if I do see something? Sandi sure looked like a ghost to me. What do I do if I see Quinn? Would that mean she's dead? Nobody has ever proven the reality of a life after death. So am I hallucinating from fatigue and worry?
Daria slowly reached up, and closed the cabinet door. Her own image stared back at her. Slowly an old children's rhyme surfaced in her mind. Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Did she really want an answer? The hateful next line came bubbling up from Daria's always rich imagination. Is my sister Quinn dead, after all? The mirror only showed Daria her own reflection It trembled slightly. She shuddered, backing away from the mirror, turned off the light, and went back to her cold bed.
As Daria approached her bedroom she slowed. The door to Quinn's bedroom was closed,. but she felt a cold draft blowing strongly under the door, like a window had been left open She hesitated for a long minute, then reached for the knob.. Had a window broke open from the wind? Daria stopped, staring at the door in the dim light. The varnished wood sparkled with frost. The faint sounds of sobbing came through the thick wood.
Stacy's body lay on its back on top of the huge drift of snow surrounding the cabin. Her long brown hair and loose clothing fluttered in the stiff wind gusting over her. Her arms lay by her sides, her legs were slightly parted. Stacy's lips were parted in a small O, the perfect picture of surprised innocence. Her eyes closed except for a small slit. Ice crystals sparkled over her now pearly white skin. A strong smell of cherry blossoms filled the air around her frozen flesh.
The Snow Lady stood over her, her head bowed, her hands clasped in front of her, staring down at the young woman. She knelt down and gently brushed Stacy's hair out of her face, like a mother preparing her little girl to go outside. She had taken the lives of countless people, seduced many men away from their fellows, dancing half clad across the snow while they clumsily plowed through it, mad with lust for her porcelain beauty. But she still grieved for the women and children whose lives she plucked as a farmer would harvest grains of rice. This girl had bravely offered her life for her friends. Frozen tears glittered on her perfect cheeks.
Slowly, above Stacy's still body, a cloud was forming, a smoky pillar of icy mist that poured ever more strongly from her nostrils and mouth. It was untouched by the harsh wind that was whipping snow across her quiet form. It grew thicker and thicker.
Quinn sacrificed her cotton bra for a bandage for Tiffany's bleeding neck, thankful that for once she had traded fashion for comfort. The cotton cups stopped the bleeding completely, though Tiffany's face remained a pale white. Tiffany laid on the wooden floor almost motionless, only the rapid beating of her heart, and her faint breathing as a sign she was still alive.
Reluctantly, her attention turned to Sandi, and she crawled over to her. Tiffany's blow to the back of her head had only torn open her scalp, and Sandi's hair was matted with blood. She turned Sandi over on her back, gasping with the effort, and dragged her over close to the stove. Sandi had discarded her own bra as her stomach had swollen, and Quinn used it to tie her hands together in front of her.
The smell of blood was still strong in the air, and Quinn was sickened by it. She was also eerily fascinated by the small pool of Tiffany's blood on the floor, glistening in the dim firelight. She thought of hiding it, soaking it up, but couldn't, its reddish gleam beckoning at her, attracting her.
Finally, she crawled over to it, unable to stand any more, her thin arms and legs trembling. She stared down into it, her own reflection, her now bony face staring back at her, her cheekbones in sharp relief. Faint ripples of movement flowed across the crimson surface. The thick metallic scent seemed to tug her down, her face getting closer and closer to the still strangely warm pool, almost steaming. Quinn licked her dry lips, her face lower and lower, closer and closer, to the reddish liquid.
Until finally, lapping like an animal, Quinn began to drink.