None of the views proposed in this work represent the views of the author.
Here's a fun little Spring's tale…
Giyuu's POV
Noodles are a quintessentially East Asian food. Hell, even the world over. The Italians have their Pasta and the Germans have their Spätzle and the Malays have their Laksa, but the essence of the meal always boils down to this part of the earth, home to, I don't know, a fourth of all people, and half of its good food; though take my words as the words of a biased bigot.
I've never been to China, or Korea, but I've had many eye-opening experiences in this here Japan regarding the stringy dish. There's soba, for one, but I don't really like soba, because I find the colour icky. Then there's udon, which is partly up there, and sōmen, shirataki, hiyamugi, but my favourite of all – and please, refrain from calling me basic, elementary, so on – is ramen.
Akuma Ramen is a legendary ramen stand which is reputed to make its broth out of demons. It is in no way connected to the demon slayers or actual demons, and whether the soup fable is true or not, the taste is unlikened anywhere else. Its name was happenstance and it was happenstance too when I came across it one day after training, upon which it quickly became my go-to for solitary eating. I shan't disclose its location, but I will say it can be found somewhere along the Hiroshima coastline.
Late one night, while in a nigh unbreakable frenzy split between slurping noodles and chugging Coke, another customer came in and seated himself next to me. At a glance, he had an exceedingly normal appearance. It was a middle-aged man, who wore an unexciting kimono, geta as thick as steaks, and had a receding hairline – what was left was dark, cropped and tussled – which emphasised a big forehead that was oblique like a bent rectangle. He was shorter than me, but wider. He ate immeasurably fast, and drank his tea slowly. When we were both finished, I could feel the gaze of the man periodically brush over me. After a while, he spoke with a voice that was a tad nasal and lisp-y, fully profound, but not raucously so.
"Do you know why is it that children are almost universally loved in comparison to adults?"
It was an agreeably daring question to present a stranger, but I heard it perfectly, and saw no cause not to answer it.
"'Cause they're little… and endearing."
"That's one reason. But think outside of your box."
"Because they're… sweet."
"You've just said the same thing. You're quite dim, aren't you? Well, I'll give you the answer." He sucked in a big wad of air, though it did not relieve the tightness in his voice. "It's because children are still curious and free from the island mentality. They are not set in their way of thinking, as adults are. Because they are not mature, they are still pliable, meaning they can be bent by whoever wants to do so, or it can be said that they are still open-minded, and are free from senior prejudices like opinion and racism, unless it is instilled in them. That is why they are almost universally loved, and have no true enemies; because they are not able to really oppose anyone, or anything."
I was prepared to end the conversation there, but the man continued, and his iron look kept me down.
"But when they grow up this magic disappears. With age, they weave their way into the world, and take a side. They make enemies, even if it isn't outright. I have a daughter who is now nineteen. She's been an 'adult' for a year now, but she's basically still a teenager. And a part of me doesn't want to see her grow up. I don't want to see her walk out into the world and establish a place that'll inevitably grind against others. There's always been that fear for her life, in the back of this head. But maybe that's just me being overbearing. The whims of the old and forgotten, I guess. Though, talk arose a year ago of another adolescent on the scene… a boy Tsuguko, that came out of nowhere, who my daughter trained a while." He's now perched in my direction, over the counter. He had eyes green as mint, and from the long mantle of his kimono I saw the hilt of a sword poke out. So – a demon slayer? But an older man, in a job where people rarely saw twenty…
"My name is Tetsuo Morinaga," he said. "I am foster father to Miyamoto Shō, forty-nine years old, and Mist Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps. I am also the maker of your misery."
Part 2: Chauvinism
April 1916
Japan's a fast-changing place, aye, though not everywhere develops at the same rate. You close one eye and you see a dazzling city of moonlike concrete and perfectly rectangular glass and machined metal, and then you close the other and see a rural, gently exhausted land, too small for the amount of people that now swarmed it, and not just Japanese people anymore. I am not a xenophobe, or an advocate of keeping things 'all modern' or 'all traditional', but I find it surreal. Though I hear in America, the situation is tenfold.
I am now sixteen-years old, yet I feel the year that has passed between now and fifteen doesn't add up. I've successfully assimilated into the higher-folds of demon slaying life, and co-existence with mentor Tsubone and fellow mentees Kanae and Shinobu, who I find amiable enough. It's a slow lifestyle, but I look at myself in the mirror and see that my shoulders have finally grown beyond the width of my waist, that I had become tall enough to need to bend down to see my full image reflected in the glass. Superficial progress, yes, but I enjoy it. I'm at the age where I care about appearance more than ever, and I know this because I am gradually leaning towards an interest in the opposite sex. Though, nobody in particular's caught the flare in my eye yet.
But I will say it again: this is an enjoyable, yet slow lifestyle. And because of the latter I am quickly growing disillusioned with it.
I have a plan, though, to restore interest. To get something I've always dreamt of, that'll make me nothing short of elated to have.
My dream – to get a watch.
And today, the 17th of April, 1916, is the day I will fulfil that dream!
Breakfast time came – I know this because I can hear skittering and clanging coming from the floor below me – and I'm only halfway out of bed and there's a pulse beating on the inside of my head and I'm damning myself for having slept so late. The noise reached upstairs, and then it's by my door. I braced myself, it swung open, and Shinobu was there.
The intervening year had changed Shinobu. She had become girlier: she wore her bangs longer and donned perfume and lipstick and had on a fashionable morning-gown, but she also threw her head back when she laughed, and a bitter aftertaste had developed on the tip of her already volatile temperament.
"Before you say anything…" I rolled onto my feet. "I was… working on the weekend, like usual. Working late."
Her reply was bitter:
"Well? Are you way off in the deep end, too?"
How would she know? I went on with my morning routine – performed all my amenity-ical applications, picked the blonde hairs that were growing on my face, and shaved the rest, so on, so go – shooed Shinobu out and changed into demon slayer garb, went past my newly-bought gramophone, a fancy vanity table donated by Kanae, a stack of jumbled records acquired from an equally jumbled motley of markets, too many books, letters, half-used candles, back into the bathroom absentmindedly. I saw myself in the mirror, and something about the uniform struck me. Then I remembered: the meeting of Tetsuo Morinaga yesterday, what that meeting would entail.
Tsubone and Kanae were waiting for me downstairs. Though Tsubone was almost never home for supper she made a point of being here for breakfast. Her face was lukewarm, and she looked plucked out of yesteryear. She had not changed. If Kanae had, it was inexplicably so. More often did I look back when she passed me, and simultaneously, I had become meeker in her presence. She was seventeen, one year from sweet eighteen-hood, but to us littluns she was grown up beyond the number her age commanded. I sat at the table.
"You know what's the time, Giyuu?" Tsubone asked. It reminded me of something: the watch I wanted to get today, and instantly I had energy.
"…Seven-thirty," I guessed.
"Yes, seven-thirty."
"Awfully late breakfast, speedy!" Kanae said. Or was it Shinobu? Though the frequencies were different, and the severity it had on me, the two of them were interchangeable in their venom. The meal began.
"In any case… it's Monday, blue Monday, so, briefing." A morning tradition, which Tsubone headed.
"Physiotherapy with the people in Sector-2. And taking records of potential recruits!" Kanae beamed.
"Uh, I'll go for a walk, and buy some rice and whatever," Shinobu muttered.
"…Paperwork," I relinquished.
"Process a new batch of perma-injured," Tsubone said. "And that. Kanae, Giyuu, you'll be coming with me."
"What–" I knew very well what for: today I was to appear at the bi-annual Hashira meeting for the first time; to be introduced to the rest of them. We finished our food and cleaned our teeth and we stood up to bid charitable goodwill on our separate medical ways, though, just as we were about to disperse…
A knock on the door.
"Wait it out," Tsubone said. She never accepted people in the morning, but the rapping continued. It became quicker and louder. There was a pause, probably to psyche us, and then it continued. It got to her eventually. Tsubone folded, went to the door, and opened it.
Morinaga.
"Hiya, Tsubone. I didn't have the best supper yesterday, so I've been starving through all night and morning, but I know you're probably not going to let me in for breakfast. So I'll ask you frankly. Let me steal your boy for the day."
"Poor luck. Breakfast's already done. Plus he's busy. You know what for." And Tsubone would try to close the door, but Morinaga forced himself through. He still wore his kimono. He smiled when he saw me in the doorway, and he took off his shoes and brushed past me, to the dining room. Tsubone did not stop him; and later she'd tell me this was for courtesy rather than an imbalance of power.
"You've gotten bigger," he said to Kanae and Shinobu. Obviously, they were not accustomed to his presence, as they were to Miyamoto's. They used formalities when answering the typical visitors' questions ('how've you been?', 'how old are you now?') and were silent and suspicious otherwise. Morinaga turned to me.
"How'd you sleep, boy?"
"Well enough," I said, and Tsubone stepped in.
"What're you here for, Tetsuo?" she asked.
"I told you, did I not? I want him to accompany me for the day."
"And I told you no, did I not? If there's nothing else, then it's go-time for you." She said it from another room of the house, and I knew she was only pretending to do something because this was another habit of hers; a method to subvert the annoying.
"Remember when we used to have tea by the seaside almost every day?" Morinaga replied. "Now, you chase me away so quickly. I've never known the reason why, but you can tell me now!"
She came back in with a strained gaze – surprisingly, with fresh tea in her hands – and her eyes jumped from me then to Morinaga: "You know why." He accepted the tea, but did not sit down.
"The Hashira meeting's only at three. Now it's eight. But you wouldn't know that, would you?" He was talking to me. I asked what he meant, and he pointed to my wrist:
"You don't have anything to keep the time."
Then he pointed to Shinobu's wrist:
"She does. But that isn't fair." Now it was for Tsubone. "How about… I take the boy to pick out a watch?"
A passionate no, her lips pursed into, but it did not come. And Morinaga had won. He took me to the door, and Tsubone followed us. I said my goodbyes – and there was the barest of protests voiced – but by then I had already stepped forward, out into the wide world.
"Look around you, Giyuu, how did Japan get this way? How did we fall so far?"
"What?"
"Sorry, that was a stupid thing to ask."
Takanobashi Shopping Street, Hiroshima
We crossed the river dividing the city outskirts and the city centre and we were there: bustling Takanobashi Shopping Street, alive with the morning. It was a long, narrow strip of excavated filling running through one of the dense conglomerations of high buildings that had sprung up downtown, deluge with beautifully dark, smoggy, dingy street market scenery; a perpetual column of shops, that standing at the entrance, one could see no end to.
"By the way," I asked Morinaga. "How'd you come up with that excuse? How'd you know I wanted a watch?"
"Last night I asked you what you were most looking forward to next. And you said that," he replied. "You don't remember it? I do. I also remember how you ran away so quickly, after I introduced myself. But never-mind. Go on." And he followed me inside.
I came to the first watch-stall; but at immediate sight it was overpriced and out of reach and not to my juvenile tastes. The watches there were made out of silver and obscenely glimmering: 'Rolex', the labels said, and I wondered why such fancy articles were on display here.
"Good foot traffic," Morinaga answered. "Everybody comes to Takanobashi Shopping street. The rich and the poor. So they put the shop here to guarantee a lot of people passing by, and maybe customers. AKA, to get good foot traffic."
The clerk was eyeing me down, so I went to the next stall. This one was humbler. These were IWCs, Omegas, Heuers, and one rose gold Longines piece. Shinobu's? – was the immediate thought I had. Regardless, they still escaped my budget. Walking away to the next one, I saw Morinaga lingering by the display, until he joined me, muttering something like capitalism under his breath.
Third's time a charm, huh? Third time was a charm. Though the third store wasn't a charming one, painted one side iron grey and one burnt leather, divided between two brands: Waterbury Clock Company*, and Seiko, it was going to be the most affordable in the street, I discerned. So I stepped forward, out from the realm of window-shopping, into that of feeling.
*A/N: later known as Timex.
First I took up my favourite Seiko. It had a navy-blue strap and fluorescent dials and the body was cut out of bad-ass steel. It looked like a weapon – heavy like one, too – and dare I say it was very me. Then I took up my favourite Waterbury. It was jet black, like drops of ink, with a popping cream white watch-face and exorbitant chrome-plated buckles. The numbers were painted in old-school, old-cool classic font. Dare I say it was very me too. Both were so me and so equally favourite I eventually could not decide. Thus, I turned to Morinaga. His answer was instant:
"Go for the Seiko."
"Why?" I asked, though I didn't disagree. And his reply wasn't such that it was more fashionable, more suitable, or more enduring in its style, but that it was…
"Homegrown."
What sort of reason was that? Nevertheless, I minded him. I gleefully cashed in – nine yen, a bargain among bargains – and headed home. But, now on Takanobashi Eating Street, Morinaga commanded me to pull over, and we sat at a café and ordered Coke and tea for me and him respectively. Like this, he said it:
"Look around you, Giyuu, how did Japan get this way? How did we fall so far?"
"What?"
"Sorry, that was a stupid thing to ask."
"But it isn't really, is it?" Morinaga went on. He was looking up and down the street from his seat; an upmarket neighbourhood, newly renovated, decisively western. "Though, most would rather not face the reality. And I won't press you enough to decide if you're one of the complacent."
It came back to me then why I took off in such a sprint last night: that this was the way our conversation was slowly veering to, and I wanted no part in it. But now, there was no escape. Suddenly:
"Have you heard of the Great War in Europe, Giyuu?"
"…A little bit," I replied. Very vaguely, I remembered the term abruptly erupting out of everyone's mouths in the summer of 1914, even hermit Urokodaki's, and that there was an adventurous connotation attached to it, not a war-like. Though I remember only very vaguely, I shall repeat.
"And did you know we're actually a part of the war?" Morinaga said.
"It's still going on?" Then I processed what he told me. "We are?"
"Yeah. It's Germany and Austria-Hungary and the Ottomans versus England, Russia, France… and us." Then he pointed in the direction of the sea. "A few kilo's out there's Ninoshima Island. We actually have a few German POWs on there, after we took their possessions in China. Funny, huh? Maybe if I was younger, I would've fought in the war… but that's besides the point. What I'm trying to say is…"
He put a clenched fist to his heart.
"Look what we've become." He loosened up, and continued. "Look at your uniform, Giyuu. And that can of Coke. And the name of this establishment, café. And the cars going on the street. And the dresses the women nowadays wear. And their parasols. And the mens' suits and ties and leather shoes and fancy top hats. What do they have in common?"
It was an easy answer. "They're all western inventions."
"Yeah, all western. Washed over us like a tide. People want to be them so bad. And so our government kneels to the prospect of a western army and a western-style empire." He spat the words, almost flinched when he said it. But he must have quickly realised what he said, and he turned over the topic swiftly.
"See, I'm surprised Tsubone never introduced me to you," he said. "Though I guess I really shouldn't be."
"…She's never introduced me to any of the other Hashira," I tried to diffuse him.
"But we aren't just Hashira to Hashira, are we?" And the way he made it sound was if there was hidden history beneath his words. "We've known each other for long. Way before Miyamoto and Shinobu and company came. Perhaps regrettably… for most of that time, only as friends, and now Hashira. Comrade Hashira. Though recently, things have gone sour between us." He's looking at me. He's baiting me to be inquisitive.
"Can I ask why?"
"Not for you to know yet…" – he psyched me – "...but since you're her apprentice… wouldn't that make me your enemy, too?"
A silence.
"...What?"
"No, never-mind. It was a stupid thing to ask." And he flipped topics again. "But now you're going to meet the rest of the Hashira. Are you excited?"
"…I guess," I replied.
"Don't be," Morinaga shot me down. "The lot of them are useless. Demagogues. Maybe I'm a demagogue, too, but not useless. Tsubone's the only really decent one."
"Useless?" I repeated. "How're they Hashira, then?" Moreover, what was up with the slander? It seemed peculiar for a Hashira himself to be dealing out all this criticism. Maybe, with age, he had become arrogant.
"It isn't for me to tell you right now, but I want you to observe them during the meeting. See how they act. And the leader himself, and his dog. Then you'll tell me your judgement. And before that, I don't want to you hear you calling any of them ma'am or sir. No need to put yourself below them."
"Wait–" I stopped him, but he stopped me. He left some money on the table and got up and started to head off. I was pulled to follow him, for he would not halt.
"There will be no wait. It's two-thirty. We will go there now," he said, without looking at me. "You are mature enough, I trust, to not take things just as they are. Peel through the onion enough, and maybe you will find the rotten core. The rotten core, of the…"
I never heard what came next. He walked very fast, and the distance between us was growing more and more inaudible. I realised he was heading for the mythic Ubuyashiki grounds: never approached, only a place of legend as per the stories Kanae told me about it. The glimmering, perched dome of the complex rose above the forest we were now in, and soon I stumbled into a clearing. Then I looked up, and saw it: I was standing before the estate of Ubuyashiki Kanata; the singular core around which the demon slayers revolved…
Tsubone was rarely sweet and often severe. She was there, by the great wood-and-jade gate, with Kanae and Miyamoto. The former gave me a frown, and a 'where've you been?', and the latter two both smiled; we exchanged positions and Miyamoto joined Tetsuo's side and I re-joined Tsubone's. Cue an intense, leery stare between the mentors. Then – a dissipation of tension. The gate was opened by invisible forces, and we went inside. In a wondrous garden quiet as death, there I saw it: hovering over the white sand, before a wooden platform, a group of five. Us Tsuguko remaining behind, Tetsuo and Tsubone joined them, and they became seven.
The seven Hashira – of the year 1916.
The Right Honourable Sir
Mist Hashira and Organisation Chairman TETSUO MORINAGA
Opening statement: "Ubuyashiki is late today."
The Right Honourable Madam
Water Hashira and Head Doctor TSUBONE ENDOU
Opening statement: "Where's Shinjuro?"
Fire Hashira Sir SHINJURO RENGOKU (absent)
Opening statement: N/A
Wind Hashira Sir YONEDA MAGASE
Opening statement: "Is that the new boy? Hi, new boy!"
Grass Hashira Sir NITEN ITTŌSAI
Opening statement: "The grass looks sad today."
Stone Hashira Sir GYOUMEI HIMEJIMA
Opening statement: "Good afternoon, Kanae, Tsubone. How are you, and Shinobu?"
Serpent Hashira Sir TOMITA JUROU
Opening statement: "It's getting hot... did I hand up the washing?"
Spring Hashira Sir YOKOTA RYO
Opening statement: "It's a cool spring up north."
and
The Right Honourable Sir
General Secretary NEN KUSAKABE
Opening statement: "Be silenced."
The Right Honourable Sir
Oyakata-sama incumbent UBUYASHIKI KANATA
Opening statement: N/A
…And a holy man was there on the stage, with an accomplice, and suddenly all were quiet, the highest men and women of the demon slayers were prostrated before him, their mentees next to them too, and soon me.
"Welcome, all," the accomplice said. "Raise your heads."
The man speaking was clearly of the diligent sort, wore round glasses, and had lascivious hair that was pulled into a style with excess amounts of gel. He looked quite arrogant, and his ears flared when he spoke. His name was Nen Kusakabe, he had just turned forty. The Hashira were not bowing to him, but…
Ubuyashiki Kanata.
The 96th leader of the Demon Slayer Corps.
Twenty-nine turning thirty.
The father – of Ubuyashiki Kagaya.
A holy man.
A half-dead holy man whose entire skin had burst open into unsightly purple; a half dead holy man who stood only for willpower and the assistance of his secretary; a half-dead holy man who could not see and whose hearing had become so sensitive that any substantial sound would have debilitating effects on him, and so wore ear-muffs; and so had been rendered mute lest it was whispering, for even his own voice would damage him. That at only twenty-nine, he'd set a record as the longest living Ubuyashiki, that it was only due to Tsubone's curative efforts it was so. That much I saw and knew about Ubuyashiki Kanata. That much I would ever see and ever know.
"As usual, I shall be Oyakata-sama's eyes, ears and mouth," Kusakabe said. "Because of his susceptiveness to sound, he will keep his ear muffs on while I explain his agenda to you. They will only be lifted when he wishes to convey extra messages to you, via me, or the other way around, upon which I will whisper into his ear. Let us begin." Kusakabe cleared his throat, lifted up one end of the muff – so Ubuyashiki could hear himself speak – and leaned in close. Haltingly, in a coarse whisper, he gave Kusakabe the memo, and when it was done the muff was released again.
"…First off Ubuyashiki would like to express his relief that there have not been any casualties among the Hashira since our last meeting, and that he wishes you continued good health and luck from here on," Kusakabe said.
Thank you, came in unison from a few younger members, but Tetsuo and Tsubone were quiet. Kusakabe directed this to Ubuyashiki and he nodded, but did not smile.
"But with regret, he also states that due to ailing health this will be the last Hashira meeting in his tenure at which he will appear. From now on, his son will succeed him…" – the crowd started to hurl their sympathies – "…but from his own mouth he wishes there to be no music over it. He will go and his son will come and it would be as if there was no change at all." And the pitying died down.
"Next up," Kusakabe continued. "…I see Shinjuro is not here, again. Where is he?"
"At home, likely," Tsubone replied.
"…Drinking," Morinaga muttered, and he shook his head.
"By God in heaven," Magase said. "The useless man."
"Magase, I'll give you a chance to withdraw that comment," Kusakabe said, and Magase did, though with little sincerity. "In any case – though we all know what's happening – we need someone to check on Shinjuro."
Nobody came forward, and there was a while before it was Tsubone to finally volunteer. The meeting went on.
"Next on the agenda is the topic of Wisteria Week," Kusakabe continued. "And Final Selection after that."
"What's Wisteria Week, Kanae?" I whispered.
"Like, the height of Spring. When all the Wisteria in the country 'bloom the most'. 23rd April to 30th April. In this time, there's almost no demon activity. So, it's a kind of a holiday for us slayers."
My attention went back to Kusakabe.
"…Everyone knows what's the deal with Wisteria Week," he said. "At the end of it, our rank-and-file people get a pay bonus and we have that big festival on the 30th, yada yada. But the exciting thing's Final Selection. 1st to 7th of May. This year, we have 137 prospective recruits."
Wow, again came from the younger Hashira, and someone even clapped. Kusakabe nodded and allowed a grin, taking pride in statistics that were not his.
"…Already Oyakata's beneficiaries have pulled together 20,000 yen for us. That's half of what we need in total to make the selection operation go smoothly. Transport costs for the students from here to there… and transport costs for those who'll make it back, included."
Morinaga's hand went up. Kusakabe was hesitant for a moment, before he allowed him to speak.
"And what of the budget?" Morinaga asked.
"…What of it?" Kusakabe replied.
"Why are we raising money for selection when we already have a budget?"
"Because," Kusakabe said. "Selection's not the only thing that has a cost. There's the wages, the bribes to keep the mining license for Nichirin Mountain, the bribes for other things, Wisteria Week–"
"Ubuyashiki and all of his forefathers have always mandated that Final Selection comes first when allocating the budget. In theory, we shouldn't have to raise money for it," Morinaga interrupted. He was looking into Kusakabe. "You are Ubuyashiki's 'eyes, ears, and mouth', aren't you? And being the general secretary, you are also the head accountant. You are the one in charge of the budget. Yet your managing of it doesn't match up with the Ubuyashiki agenda you speak so fondly of."
Kusakabe snarled. "What are you implying?"
"Nothing at all," Morinaga said, and he fell back into his subservient place, not to hide himself from the world, but to spare the world its remaining face. "I am being insolent. And I apologise for it."
"So be it. It happens to the best of us, and the least, too." His eyes went shifty. "We go on. As usual, the selection will be held on the indemnity zone of Mount Fujikasane, on Shikoku."
The mention of it brought up a few gasps, and Kusakabe smiled again.
"That being said, the plans to retake Shikoku Island have been finalised. The details of the operation will be announced on stage on the last day of Wisteria Week. Further info will come in due time."
Soon the air was full of zeal, and the young Hashira and Kanae and Miyamoto were rapping among themselves. I felt vastly out of place. I wanted to turn to liquid and seep through the cracks in the ground and disappear, but lord above would not have it. Kusakabe clapped his hands and there was silence again.
"…Basically that concludes the meeting. Though we have one more off bit. Miyamoto."
Suddenly, attention had been turned on the Tsuguko. I sensed the spotlight slowly lurking to me, and dreaded it. Miyamoto took it with grace, and sat up straight to heed Kusakabe.
"The infidel Muzan has found himself a replacement for Lower Moon One. But it was a sloppy choice. We've tracked him down already. Now we only need somebody to execute it." And everyone knew at once the magnitude of his words: that this was opportunity being given on a golden plate; the opportunity to become a Hashira.
Kusakabe had yet to finish when Miyamoto accepted, explosively: "Yes, I'll do it!". Plenty good for her, and that was that, though he was not done yet. Kusakabe extended an invasive finger, and his hand fell on me. "Who are you?"
Tsubone answered for me. "My Tsuguko. My other Tsuguko."
Kusakabe nodded. "The one who killed the last Lower Moon One? I see so. Come forward, boy." I approached him, but he stopped me midway: "Your name."
"Giyuu Tomioka."
"Good. I shall tell Oyakata."
He left me in the middle to become occupant of everyone's attention – a real travesty for shy, young Giyuu – and when Kusakabe was done relaying, he called me forward again.
"He wishes to 'see' you. Kneel here." And I kneeled, just before the platform. I kept my head down, but saw in the outskirts of my sight Ubuyashiki come forward, with the inexplicable temperance of an honourable blue whale; of someone genially accustomed to disability. Kusakabe gave him a thin pair of gloves – later I would learn they were to protect against any germs that could compromise an Ubuyashiki's marred immune system – and he started to feel my face. It was a wonky procedure, and I tried my best to hold still. He had fingers thin as wire, delicate like scarred porcelain, and they would have hurt me if I could not tell he was giving his most to be gentle. When he was done, he pulled back, smiled, and whispered queerly that I reminded him of his son. And nobody would have dared to explain just what resemblance it was.
Trivia: higher-ups in the demon slayers
The ceremonial and true leader of the demon slayers is always the head of the Ubuyashiki family, or Oyakata-sama incumbent. Directly under him is the Organisation Chairman. He is the elected executive leader, meant to accommodate the role of Oyakata-sama incumbent in managing the fighting body of the demon slayers, though from the shadows, as to not usurp too much popularity. Although he/she is allowed semi-autonomy in the way of decision making, and doesn't necessarily have to report to Ubuyashiki when carrying out these decisions, he/she still answers to him if ever he decides to step in. The General Secretary used to be only that; a secretary to Ubuyashiki. He/she is the right-hand man to the heir and oversees the humdrum jobs in keeping the demon slayers fiscally afloat, seeing all the necessary bribes paid, so on. In the case of Nen Kusakabe, due to the current Ubuyashiki head's unique condition, his position has become blurred with that of Oyakata-sama incumbent. The General Secretary also stands in for Ubuyashiki at public events he cannot be present at, though this has in no part helped his/her popularity.
The congregation dissolved, and the Hashira went on their good ways after giving me their insincere encouragements, and only Morinaga, Tsubone and Tsuguko company were left. Our universal decree: Tsubone still had business, so we'd accompany her for the rest of the day. But first…
"What's wrong with you, Tetsuo? Why're you so direct?" she said.
"I'm stupid," Morinaga replied. "Tell me what you're talking about."
"Kusakabe, and your corruption allegations."
"You know enough to know that they aren't allegations, lady. And I needed to prove something to your boy," Morinaga said. "Ubuyashiki's on his last leg of life. He won't last more than a month. And now Kusakabe's taking advantage of his position to intertwine his word with the word of Ubuyashiki… and nobody's gonna disobey Ubuyashiki! Can't you see? It's tomfoolery!"
"Yes, and he's going to use the word of Ubuyashiki to turn everyone on you if you keep this up. But don't listen to me. Go off yourself."
…So onwards, I guess, to tea on the seaside.
Minutes later we're drinking al fresco under the shade of a coastal jacaranda near the medical faculty, Morinaga and Tsubone with their tea, the kids with their Coke, Miyamoto with some other soda. Coincidentally, we saw Shinobu at the estate, and she joined us. So, the whole posse was here. Morinaga spoke.
"Tell me what you think about those men, Giyuu."
I remembered he told me to observe them, and tried to strike up a clever answer. "Which one?"
"Anyone. But start with Kusakabe."
"…He's prideful," I replied. "He's proud of himself."
"Arrogant, you mean?"
"Yeah."
"Then we're on the same leaf, the same page." Morinaga smiled, and reclined. "He's a small man, Kusakabe. Been around since, seven, eight years ago, when he got that secretary position. I pay him no mind. He pays me plenty."
"Hey, Vladimir Lenin," Tsubone said, and she slapped Morinaga's arm. "Tea on the seaside. Not politics."
"It ain't politics. It's education." And he went on. "That boy, Kusakabe, has it out for me. Tsubone, too, though he shows it less. It's 'cause we're the only two members of the demon slayers that are older than him. It's 'cause he can't control us like Ubuyashiki."
I glanced at Miyamoto, and her expression said it all: that this was routine talk for mad, revolutionary Morinaga. Essentially, I had one cryptic thought, and this thought lent itself to another, so on, so forth for a while, until it arrived. I remembered what she told me one year ago, hidden in the oscillations of our first conversation: my Hashira's in charge of admin'ing this organisation.
"What's your position, Morinaga?" I asked.
"Besides Mist Hashira? Organisation Chairman," he replied, with little pride. "Like I'm Ubuyashiki's elected other half, just can't show my face… though it doesn't stop my popularity. And because of that, Kusakabe hates me."
"Venemous," Miyamoto added.
"As I've said before, Kusakabe takes advantage of his 'eyes, ears and mouth' position to regulate the flow of information to and from Ubuyashiki… so he's really 'Ubuyashiki'. And I have to listen to 'Ubuyashiki', which sucks. But I find ways to defy him anyway," Tetsuo said.
"…But Kusakabe's not the only person Ubuyashiki can talk to." Shinobu suddenly spoke. She'd caught sight of my new watch, and I thought she was too busy fiddling with it to pay any mind to the fiesta.
"…Basically, he is. Now that there's no real way to differentiate between Kusakabe's word and Ubuyashiki's word, he's (he says they've) come up with this nice rule that whatever people want to tell him must go through the General Secretary first. Or at the very least, be uttered in his presence. The other way around, too. Applies to everyone except his family. And I can't believe…" Morinaga shot back up in his chair. "…This new lot of Hashira just go along with it! That they can't see through his power-grubbing. Really, useless!"
And maybe it was the sugar rush, or the residual ecstasy from my midday purchase, that I dared to ask him what followed:
"Why don't you do something about it, then?"
There was a silence, and he gave me his answer with dramatic mastery:
"Who says I'm not?"
And he left it at that. Morinaga took a backseat and Shinobu came forward.
"…Any news from the meeting?" she asked all.
"Not much," Tsubone replied. "Shinjuro wasn't there again. I need to find some time… to re-set him on the good path."
"Not worth the effort, if you ask me," Morinaga chimed in.
"Is… Final Selection happening this year?" Shinobu said.
In the edge of my eye I saw Tsubone wince. "Yes."
"Then–" she went ecstatic. "May I–"
"We will talk about this at home," Tsubone cut off, and it was right of her, because this was a sore topic for all of us. Defeated, Shinobu pulled back with a lopsided expression.
"Yes, we will, of course."
"When they mentioned Final Selection," I started. "They also mentioned something about the 'plan to retake Shikoku'. What's that?"
"Again, I'll tell you later. Something's come up." Tsubone stood, then she was talking to herself. "…Has the rest of the perma-injured finally come in?" And we watched her fade into the endless complex of opposite buildings, attending to her unknown business.
For one reason or another, I did not return to the conversation, but kept my eyes approximated in that direction. There was unengaging talk behind me of Miyamoto's last mission, and her 'retrieving someone', and inevitably I would've been pulled into the vortex of meagerness if it was not for Tsubone coming out then, leading a column of the destitute behind her.
The destitute – and crippled.
Bloodied people with legs blown off, their arms ripped out. Bodies slit down the middle and barely patched. Some of them leaned with the weight of their misery on crutches, and others were stubborn enough to hobble against the railings, on stumps that were sharpened like needles. They were demon slayers, these men and women. Old soldiers forsaken by God. I looked at them and perhaps saw myself if my path until then had been in any way leeward. Tsubone, high and healthy, led and helped along the sullen to their destination; it appeared they were taking a break from their march parallel us. Morinaga spoke.
"They're demon slayers who've been crippled in battle and haven't had the good fortune to die. Perma-injured," he explained. "Tsubone treats and processes them at the estate before they're released back into civilian life, and then they're on their own with their final wage. Sad, isn't it?"
"…They don't get a pension afterwards?" I asked.
"No. And it isn't for me to decide. Just, maybe if it was…" He didn't finish.
"Look!" Miyamoto suddenly cried. "There's the guy I rescued!"
She pointed towards the line, but they were filed so close together I could not make out who specifically. Before identification, a signal was sounded, and they went on their way again. A shame, but I didn't particularly mind.
"Shinobu, pass me that watch," Morinaga asked. He checked the time, and handed it back to me. "It's six already. That's my cue to go. Say bye to Tsubone for me. Miyamoto."
Mint mentor and cloud mentee got up, and bid their farewells and left. I would not take my eyes off them until they vanished among the crooks of the road; before Tsubone appeared and called us to her side to accompany her for the rest of the day.
Evening's come. In the half-light everything's become a dark silhouette, amidst the purple twilight. Work around here has sapped everyone, and Tsubone's sending us home before her. On my way out of the estate, though, I'm stopped.
"Hey!"
It called me like a faraway scent, an ambiguous voice. With no-one else here, I was obviously the target, though I looked around and found nothing.
"Hey! Over here!"
Only then did I see it: leaning against a wall, right arm gone and left eye bandaged, one of the injured from before. He was waving and beckoning me to stand next to him. There was no cause not to, so I did.
Cue a standstill, side-by-side.
Silence.
Then:
"You're the boy from before. With that girl." He had a disheartened voice, and spoke slow and without inflection. "With that girl who… saved me."
"Miyamoto, you mean?" I put two and two together.
"Miyamoto? That's her name?" He turned away. "That's a nice name. I didn't reply her when she called out to me, because… because…"
"…You were shy?" I proposed.
"I guess. But maybe I also didn't know she was talking to me. It's strange."
Another lull.
"Are you… feeling better?" I asked.
"Well, I don't know. I'm nearly nineteen, and I hoped to spend my birthday fighting alongside my comrades, but it looks like that won't be happening. We were ambushed, and everyone was killed but me. I've only been wheeled in yesterday."
"I see… I'm sorry."
"…Thank you." He was looking forward again. "You… talk a lot with that woman, Tsubone. And I heard her call you Giyuu. Is that your name?"
"Yeah," I replied.
"Where you from, Giyuu?"
"…Shikoku. Matsuyama, in Shikoku."
"That's near. Just across the strait."
"And you?" I returned.
"Me? I… don't really know. I have recollections of a place, a restricted place, where I spent my younger days, and little before that. I don't have any knowing of where I was born. Though, there's this one memory… that transcends time… maybe it was of the beginning of this life… or maybe it's a premonition of the end… that I'm wending my way down some river, in a canoe or something. A river, in a different land. Or maybe it's a path, but a path of liquid. And the water here's clear as glass. There was this spot on it, this one bank, where the river suddenly turned thin… into a stream… and I came upon a field of white chrysanthemum, and it finally gave out. I disembarked, and looked at this new world. It was… obstinately beautiful. One would think that a piece of God's own garden just up and fell on the earth. The ocean was there, too, all around me. I tried picking some flowers, but their stems were tough as rope, and they wouldn't snap, like they didn't want to leave. They were not mine for the taking. They refused to leave this flower field, this world that was theirs. And I thought to myself I would stay here a little longer… perhaps a few more minutes… perhaps my whole life, and maybe, just maybe, I'd instead become part of their world. But it could not be. I was a foreigner, come to trespass in their heaven. They would not have me. And these flowers turned to men with weapons. And they're chasing me, and, and…"
He's staring at his one left hand, a fist.
"That's where it ends."
And he released it.
Years later I would recount the scene that the handicap painted before us. Recount, and replay it. I would imagine the literal words out of the man's mouth turning into their figurative forms, to become pigment for a paintbrush to spew on a canvas. And like a movie, there would be movement. The rush of the river; the slow dissolution of it. The ambling of a butterfly. The rushing of grass. The bobbing of the chrysanthemum flowers.
I'm there.
He's there, too.
Side-by-side, just akin to that Spring evening of 1916.
And like this, he would tell me…
I finally know who I am.
I see the long hair, free like dull liquid silver, the handsome and beautiful face, the masculine stubble, the taller presence, the eye of magnificent purple merging with wealthy yellow, so radiant not even a quarter of a body gone and half a head wrapped in linen could hide. He looked to me for the first time, and renounced it:
"My name is Numachi," he said. "Now, you know who I am."
