"The bamboo here is special."
On a bright summer afternoon, I remember those words being spoken to me. I watched my aged mother struggle to pull out a shoot from the ground, holding it out like the plume of some rare bird.
"Had this shoot been left alone, it would have grown taller than you by the end of the day."
I took it from her with both hands. I felt its roughness, its weight - I watched the ant-spiked dirt crumble out from between my fingers.
"But, take it even a few steps from the forest edge, and it will turn to dust before your eyes."
Very few humans can muster the courage to wander out from the village into Gensokyo's verdant mainland, and even fewer find themselves willing to stick their necks into some cursed forest just for the sake of it. That's why, even after all these years, this place has been allowed to fester uninhibited, with not a single entrance to speak of. Some attempts have been made in the past to clear a few acres of bamboo out to make room for farmland, on the basis that its terrifying growth must be down to some kind of divine, miraculous soil. If only it could have grown back faster, and spared us the truth. For when spades and hoes were brought to shape the land, we found our tools unable to breach even a few inches beneath the soil.
We discovered it. The roots - or rather, the root which stems across the undergrowth of the forest. Like a bed of corpses, the innumerable bamboo husks, buried beneath centuries of rebirth, had strengthened and reinforced the ground to the point of absurdity. Unaffected by decay and rot, the land had become solely conquered by a simple plant, forever fused to the soil. Since that time, any dreams of exploring the forest fully were quickly crushed beneath the weight of this fantastic reality. The bamboo grows, spreads and replants itself in a lightning-quick cycle, shifting the walls of its domain like a living maze. So formidable is Gensokyo that even its greenery has proven too dangerous an enemy for simple, world-weary humans.
And yet tales persist of wild and unimaginable miracles. Legendary encounters with ashen-haired hermits peddling directions and medicine. Many enter, and those who seek salvation with the purest of hearts emerge unscathed after hours or days of wandering. But there always exist those unlucky few who become devoured by the forest.
I watch the whisps of my breath cross the threshold, dispersing into nothing.
The wilderness is no place to find yourself in the middle of winter. It's cold enough to freeze the slaver lining my lips. I'm in no state to continue putting one foot in front of the other for the sake of some far-fetched dream. All I can do is remember those words, from a simpler time when my soul was innocent and without so much of this bravado. And yet, pulled by the whim of that same destiny which set me out on this journey, my sandals find purchase in the snow, leading me through the curtain of towering foliage.
Predictably, I am lost within minutes of wandering. As the clearing disappears into the mist behind me, I can feel the forest's roots split and gouge out from the soil, rows of ever-thickening bamboo reaching towards the heavens. I walk in a perfectly straight line - even stopping a few times to check the curve in my footprints, and yet effortlessly, I find myself looping back to some convergent point where my travels seem to intersect. At some point, unbeknownst to myself, I collapse, falling backwards into my tomb of dirt and snow, where I can die watching the cloud-cover unravel itself. Without looking or paying any particular attention, I undo the knot of my pouch and scrape a palmful of rice out from the bottom. The frozen grains split between my teeth like crackers, tasteless and inadequate.
For fear of my eyes closing in the peace of it all, I stumble back onto my feet, feeling my stomach turn with the shameful offering it's been forced to accept, and let my gaze fall to the ground. Another pair of footprints trail gently in the snow. Slowly, sure-footed - a little smaller than my own, occasionally merging with the clumsy steps I once made. For how long have these tracks been here? And for how long have I travelled without noticing them? For what little encouragement my body can offer itself, something rises up deep within me, threatening to jump up out of my throat. For the first time, my ears take note of the silence that exists between the forest stalks that even breaths seem to disturb. How is it possible that someone else could be wandering around without me noticing them? Even in this poor state, I would still notice the barest of sounds in such a quiet place.
It's strange, but for the first time, it feels as though my sword has become a weapon. Here it sits, this ornamental length of steel hidden within its sheath, never once raised for the sake of anger or violence, now exposed to the feeling of being thought of as a tool of murder. My hand rests on the grip; the trigger which bursts with metal into the cool winter air, and considers briefly the ritual of holding a blade. The weight, position, rotation - something as simple as where my fingers might curl around it. All of these thoughts, educated formalities tempered by years of training, threaten to leave me in the moment when I might need them the most.
Most Youkai are too cunning or too prideful to leave evidence of their murders. A wild beast may have left these tracks, but the stride and shape is unmistakeably humanoid. Could it be an Oni? I've heard tales that their kind enjoy such quiet places. If that happens to be the case, then it's only a matter of time before I'm killed. I would need no more than a single hand to count the few wicked creatures of Gensokyo I could defeat in a fair fight. In that way, the odds are thoroughly stacked against me, already malnourished and disoriented from days of wandering. For now, whatever guardian that stalks this forest seems to be ignoring me. Its padded strides through the snow lead onto a straightaway through the bamboo. With these, even the land's cruel maze shouldn't be able to misdirect me. While I may be walking towards my death, there doesn't seem to be an alternative.
From the ground, I retrieve my now completely empty pouch and begin on an unsteady trot further into the forest.
How long? Minutes? Hours? Days and nights seem to pass in the blink of an eye. The footprints continue forward unerringly, never once diverting from the path or slowing in their advance. Over time, my hunger pangs cease to be, replaced by a stoic emptiness. I can feel my muscles atrophy, screaming with every step. Every conscious second of this journey, the idea of laying down and simply passing away eats into what little confidence remains in my soul. From the furthest recesses of that understanding comes a saviour too late to spare me the pity I need to end my life. Could it be that I am already dead?
"...ntei..."
It speaks to me. This beast of the bamboo forest. From behind, resting unceremoniously on the porch of its home, it calls just like that.
"...ver see..." Through the ringing in my ears, I can just about make it out, "...ans in... nter..."
My blade cuts through thin air.
Too weak to control my own momentum from the spin, I quickly lose balance and fall. My body struggles to cope under the stress of adrenaline, and for the briefest moment, my vision goes black. Only a silhouette fills out this newly colourless world, growing as its fragmented voice becomes clearer. Breathing again, my body forces itself to stand, hands pressed up to the guard of my sword, fingers struggling to maintain their grip. In the haze of the moment, I only understand the world in its most basic form - a sea of white decorated with strokes and pinpricked spots of pure crimson. I see blood, but feel no pain. Is it possible that I managed to cut the enemy? Or...
"Oya, you're in a bad state." A young voice. Womanly but boyish, "If you came here looking for a cure-all, you're way off track."
-Or, is it just that the opponent standing before me happens to look a little strange?
The figure is no tall-standing demon or many-legged beast searching for its next meal. This woman's appearance is emblematic of a Youkai, though of what sort I'm completely unable to tell. The perfect middle-ground between the strength of a soil-splitting Oni and the ferocity of a wild animal, and yet an existence whose strength lies somewhere between those two distant peaks. Quite possibly, it might just be some harmless, defenceless creature, or I may have already decided my fate by confronting it. What other dilemma could encompass so purely the danger this land poses to such pitiful creatures as us?
My stance remains. Withered by malnutrition or exhaustion, the holes in my defence are gaping and glaring. A child armed with a knife could pose a greater threat, and yet I cling to the false pride gifted to me from training, completely unable to express any of my swordsmanship in the one moment where it must be tested. The ashen-haired woman stares in my direction without a hint of the fear that must exist in my own eyes, apparently more than comfortable with simply exchanging glances in the moment. Upon the snow-capped porch of her modest home, the warm fire of a hearth enlightening the doorway blares a worthwhile heat into the forest. It speaks volumes about my condition that I managed to trudge straight past it without even noticing.
"...You wanna fight?" She poses that question to me matter-of-factly, without a hint of fear, "Give me a second."
And, with that, she exposes her back to me and steps inside. I'm left alone in the cold, and my reason makes a brief return during the silence that follows.
Fight?
Does she mean something like those battles of magic shared among Youkai? I haven't cultivated any sort of knowledge in that form of combat. There couldn't be something besides such a dead-to-rights agreement of fairness that a term like 'fighting' could describe. Being the creatures that they are, Youkai treat life and death differently from humans, who see one and the other like sides of a coin. What sort of playful, unknowable match have I agreed to simply by drawing my sword? I receive the answer to that question not seconds later, witnessing the baggy-trousered girl hop out from her abode with something in hand, walking forward to within a few long paces of me.
"If you're a human, you should know that fighting without spell cards can only mean one thing, right?"
She brandishes a shortsword in one of her hands, rusted and chipped to the point of uselessness. What kind of person keeps such a pitiful weapon stowed away in their own home? Its age is almost unapproachable. Even someone with no stake in the finer quality of blades like myself can appreciate the long life such a sword must have lived. But what purpose could it have in combat? A blade so dull couldn't cut through a hair.
"I'm not too excited about killing a human." She continues, "But what else am I supposed to do about a lunatic on my doorstep?"
Having trouble finding her feet in the snow, she takes a few seconds to grasp the hilt with both hands and works her way into a stance.
With her left foot forward and right held behind at an imperfect facing, she straddles the guard of the shortsword with her right hand, grasping the bottom firmly using her left, and raises the weapon up at an angle beginning close to her waist and ending with the tip of the blade level with her throat without completely extending her arms. It's a pose that mirrors my own - chūdan, unmarred by exhaustion or worry. She keeps a posture stricter than my own while controlling the height of her blade well and maintaining the necessary footwork at the same time. This basic posture, combined with the flexibility of the sword's position, provides a variety of offensive and defensive options from the get-go, making it a basic but completely fundamental stance.
Performed excellently, the sword should block access to vulnerable areas of the body. The stomach, chest and waist are covered by the blade's position, and the unique frontal height of the sword has the benefit of completely obscuring certain key targets from your opponent, including the wrists and neck. This leaves only the head - theoretically the perfect place to land a blow, open to attack. Adding to the benefits of chūdan are your offensive options. From this readied pose, both slashing and thrusting are fair options, lending a degree of ambiguity to your approach. Not only this, but with a weapon held directly in front, parrying or blocking an opponent's strike becomes much simpler, requiring only minor twisting from the wrists and feet to execute. This, of course, naturally covers the face and head; the only vulnerable targets the stance provides to the opponent besides the legs, making it an excellent choice against the untrained or easily-fooled swordsman.
Of course, if a stance defined the perfection of all swordsmanship, then every duel would end violently for both parties. A number of minor and sometimes uncontrollable factors can also decide the outcome. Chiefly, these are the length of the weapon, and the height of the one wielding it. Both of these measurements contribute to the effective striking distance of the duellist. Standing taller than your opponent and holding a larger sword, which happens to be my situation exactly, provides me with a longer reach. In this way, I benefit from maintaining distance and waiting for the opponent to approach me on their own terms, as they will enter my striking distance before I enter theirs. One of the disadvantages of chūdan is its habit of plainly displaying the length of your blade, making it simpler for your opponent to gauge this range. Conveniently, the tip of the blade is the optimal point to attack with, effectively making your maximum striking distance the most deadly range your opponent can find themselves in, amplifying the difference height and length can make.
I remind myself of these teachings as if prying some divine meaning from them can grant me victory. This woman is not only shorter than me, but her weapon is an oversized knife more rust than metal.
And yet, I understand that I'm about to be killed.
Without considering my own pathetic state, the chūdan this girl has taken would have surpassed mine had I eaten and slept only five minutes ago. One can impart more force into their strike should they do so while exhaling rather than inhaling. Therefore, watching the opponent's breathing carefully can secure you a more effective attack or a less successful counterattack on their part. This is considerably easier to do in the winter, when one's breath is clearly visible. Only, try as I might through the cramps of hunger in my stomach, I can see no such breath from this one at all. It's as if she has stopped breathing entirely. Compared to my own, ragged and desperate, the emotional tide of battle is clearly in her favour.
"...Your name." For the first time in days, I find myself speaking, "Tell me your name."
My fate is sealed. But to die without knowing my opponent's name would be a great disappointment.
"If you can talk, that means you're not a lunatic." She ignores my question completely, "So why bother fighting at all?"
"Be quiet." I'm in no position to make demands, but mutter those words anyway, "-or tell me your name. One or the other."
She pauses, knowing full well that it's up to her whether to be bound by this binary choice or not, but seems to settle on a decision rather quickly.
"Fujiwara no Mokou." She answers, "I'm a lot stronger than you."
What an introduction. Not that she's incorrect.
As if some kind of agreement has suddenly been reached, she takes a step forward, making sure not to deviate from the strict position of her stance. My aim is simple, but also predictable - I will use the superior length of my sword to thrust as soon as she enters my range. Two steps, or perhaps one-and-a-half step more, and I will focus on piercing her chest. Fighting chūdan with chūdan normally results in a very delicate game revolving around these ranges, as with both weapons so poised to strike, it's not uncommon for attacks to land at the same time, resulting in an unfavourable outcome where both parties perish. This is assuming this woman named Fujiwara has no counterattack planned, which is a dangerous thing to bet on.
Of course, I'm not given the time to consider it. As soon as she takes her next step, I flinch as the position of her shortsword changes. With an unerring quickness, her feet rapidly spread further apart in the snow, elbows rising up to the height of her face, as the rusted-red dagger's hilt suddenly finds itself held high above her head, blade pointing behind her. In a matter of milliseconds, she has adopted the intimidating stance of jōdan, weapon raised high as if to challenge anyone foolish enough to approach her. The purpose of such a stance couldn't be more obvious - to slash and split apart the skull of whoever enters its range. Her body is completely exposed, with my original intention of thrusting now an even more agreeable option than before. A change of stances during a duel is not uncommon, though normally it's done in anticipation of your opponent's move. Switching from chūdan to jōdan while expecting a thrust to your own heart could possibly be described as suicidal.
And despite that, her victory has already been assured. A fact that does not cross my mind until it is far too late.
As Fujiwara increased the spacing between her legs to accommodate the decision to switch stances, she had managed to inch herself further towards me as I was distracted by her movements. Now much closer, she has not only captured me within her striking distance, but reduced the effectiveness of my own. Normally, being able to attack further can only be a benefit, but if two opponents stand so close to one-another, slashing strikes will lose the benefit of momentum by reducing the distance they can travel, and less weight can be exerted on thrusting attacks for a similar reason. This is assuming that both combatants are the same height, but if one happens to be shorter than the other, then beyond a certain distance, one party will have the advantage at close range, and another, the disadvantage.
My thrust is made useless. It must only travel mere inches to meet her chest, but it would take crucial time to exert the strength needed to pierce her flesh at such a distance. I can scarcely believe that my defeat wasn't down to my malnourished condition or delirious mindset. I've been thoroughly outsmarted by an impressive display of swordsmanship that outshines my own. As in the ancient fables of legendary swordsman, the battle was decided long before our swords even crossed.
In the distance, no bell tolls for my demise. No onlookers witness the battle. I will die alone, amidst the snow, with barely an excuse to pardon my lack of experience.
As Fujiwara quickly exhales
leans forward
and cuts me down
in a single strike
My life ends swiftly. The world turns completely black, and the seething pain disappears before my body has time to reach the ground. My last words were a collection of obscene demands, searching for a single thread of worthiness in a poorly-led existence. No hesitation or regret exists in Fujiwara's eyes, who quickly dismantles her stance and watches as the messy cavity torn into my chest spills blood into the alabaster snow. Predictably, her shortsword had almost snapped during the blow. If I had given thought to parrying her strike, she may very well have been disarmed. With an annoyed sigh, the girl casts a sidelong glance at her home and regards my corpse with a quiet, if slightly unfeeling respect.
"If you wave a sword at everyone you meet..." She muses, "Don't act surprised when you get cut down like a wild animal."
In a different time, in a different place, the gentle laps of the waters wake me from that frigid slumber. The first sound that escapes my mouth is a bloodcurdling scream - the beginnings of an intolerable agony dissolving through my chest rise to a peak and are quickly reduced to nothing. Without acknowledging the world around me, I take a breath that seems weeks overdue, and run a cold hand across my chest, surprised to find myself in much better condition that I was just an instant ago. A magnificent tear runs down my robes, ruining the silk. My fingers trace the bumpy, imperfect flesh running down the length of my chest. Somehow, what should be a gaping window into my organs has mended itself into a painless scar.
I'm alive.
Or, am I?
The rowboat creaks unsteadily as it cuts through the blackened waters, which remain calm and steady despite our remoteness. Neither land nor islands dare to rear themselves over the rubicund horizon. A chill air blows through from nowhere in particular. The scene is peaceful, if a little morbid-looking. I might have entertained the idea of laying down to sleep if I wasn't in the company of someone. Partitions of whites, blues and reds occupy the bow of this tiny little vessel, the twirling frills of a complicated dress blowing out from the rowboat's perimeter. In both hands, the woman sinks what appears to be a curved, black-handled oar into the water, only to reveal it as a crooked scythe as she crosses it over to the opposite side.
"Oh, I was wondering when you'd wake up." She notices my movements quickly, "The dead shouldn't sleep so much."
I had a feeling, but seeing it validated doesn't grant me any peace of mind.
"This is..." My voice is clearer now, throat not quite as dry as before.
"The Sanzu River." She finishes, "You're on your way to the afterlife."
"I would have preferred just being a vengeful spirit."
"You should have given more thought to being awake at the time." She replies, "Fujiwara No Mokou personally delivered your body here, you know."
"Is she well known in Gensokyo? I can't recall the river of the dead being close to a bamboo forest."
"For those of us concerned with death, she's quite the celebrity." The ferrywoman answers, "The sight of her dragging your corpse to the riverbank was completely poetic."
"This wouldn't happen to be the sort of day where you might consider letting me go, would it?"
"A day where I'd completely neglect my job and let a soul escape from my boat?" She adds weight to my ridiculous question, "Only if you had a very good reason."
"That woman, Fujiwara, defeated me in a duel." I reply honestly, "I'll never find peace, no matter where I might end up, unless I can kill her with my own two hands."
"Ohh~" Even if just for a moment, her graceful paddling comes to a stop, "Are you sure you're not just trying to entice me by promising something like that?"
"Is there something special about her?" I ask, "She's good with a sword, but her style's a little aggressive, I think."
"Through rain or sleet, would you chase after her life knowing you might never reach it?"
"Naturally." I try, at least, to sound confident about it, "I would follow her into the underworld if it would mean having another shot at putting her down."
"Those aren't the words of a swordsman."
"I'm no swordsman. I trained with thin air as my partner. The only enemy to ever stand in my way was myself."
"The life of a monk would have suited you better with words like those."
"Without a sword in hand, that's exactly what I would have become." I consider that crossroads again, "You Shinigami are good at seeing through people."
"Can I really call myself a Shinigami if I let a lost spirit like you escape from its fate?"
"Just say I hopped off the boat and drowned."
"And what about the next time you're killed by Mokou? Those who drown in the Sanzu River don't just rise back up after a while."
"Then be honest and tell your Yama friends that I'm in no mood to be judged."
"If I keep speaking to you, will your demands just continue to get more and more outrageous?"
"My last words were demands, as well." I answer, "It's fitting for a spirit to cling to its final beliefs."
I don't believe for a second that any of this fancy wordplay will secure me some kind of miraculous second coming, but being able to plainly air my grievances like this is refreshing in its own way. I'm in it for a long trip no matter what happens. Breaching out from the calm waterbed in the distance lurches a creature I've never once seen before, which seems neither rational nor supernatural. I watch its mighty form clamber to trap something in its vice-like teeth, before vanishing into the deep not a second later. I might've blinked, or rubbed my eyes to confirm that I wasn't seeing things, if actually experiencing the commute of the Sanzu River wasn't already unbelievable enough.
"Bear in mind, you'd be returning to a world where your connections have already dissolved away." The bright-haired ferrywoman adds, "Like all spirits chained to this river, the 'wealth' you accumulated in life was sacrificed to sate my own appetite."
"Fujiwara will still recognise me." I reply, "There wasn't any 'wealth' to speak of between us."
"You're starting to sound pretty determined about this."
"Can I take that as permission to throw myself overboard?"
"If you aren't swallowed whole, then feel free to take the long swim back to the riverbank." She encourages, "Isn't that something worthy of testing if you're serious?"
"Then I won't take up any more of your precious time." The waters threaten to freeze my legs as I lower them in, "I hope we never meet again."
"Those are fighting words to someone like me."
Naturally, the rowboat disappears as soon as I make the decision to separate myself from it. The river, which now seems so bottomless and remorseless, opens wide the length of its inescapable jaws at the introduction of some foolhardy soul trying to brave their way towards resurrection. If the devouring immersion of this fjord doesn't drown me first, the beasts tempered to its unforgiving grasp will make sure to punish my sins in a manner more straightforward than any Yama. I can feel my lungs flooding, my arms wading through the surface, still as pond water but thick as tar.
What would happen if I perished here? That singular thought propels me away from the truth. My petty need for vengeance loses itself in the abyss of this place, replaced by a dire scrambling to secure anything that remains of my existence. From the fathomless depths gaze the hungry eyes of creatures that have no place in this world or the next, whose titanic jawlines threaten to damn me with every movement. I swim for an hour, and another, and another past that, with no hint of the riverbank appearing in amidst the vermilion colours spotting the horizon. A day, a week, and then a year - for the longest time, I don't seem to move an inch, and then suddenly, without any bearing or inclination, I know myself to have travelled further than I'm able. No need for food or sleep appears to overcome me. My body reaches the limit of its stamina for what seems like the thousandth time. The skin sloughs from my arms in bumpy heaps, mixing pools of blood in with the serene waters. My muscles atrophy before my eyes. I feel my organs pulping and splitting off from their arrangements, left hanging in stasis, bone dust filtering like shattered glass through my limbs.
Is this what I deserve for trying to defy the cycle of death?
No. As much as I'm willing to complain about it, the suffering that occurred over this indeterminate time is all necessary for the next 'step' that awaits me. Refusing to acknowledge that is what will condemn me to spend the rest of the world's days crying out from the bottom of the Sanzu River. This is what it feels like to be reborn. Through this unavoidable torture, I give up not just the wealth I'd attained in life, but the wealth I will go on to create. No walk of life deserves its punishment more than I, a wandering spirit left with so much undone, who would dare to traverse the waters of death for the slimmest chance at redemption.
And so I sacrifice it all. What matters of my body - my mind, even the lingering connections between myself and the living, I offer up to this place. The riverside has always been right in front of me - its width and depth are barely fit for a lamprey. My body collapses onto the stones fully exhausted, a hellish pain stinging my joints.
I am not alive. The frigid, snow-capped ground feels almost warm to the touch. In my core, an emptiness forms like no other, as if my heart lays still. As I stand, my legs feel heavy as blood drifts aimlessly downward, forming tall and unmoving columns of unmoving scarlet. The cold, at least, isn't debilitating or hurtful. My clothes, completely bleached through from my afternoon swim through death's own river, blend in nicely with the starkness of winter. A hastily-tied knot of string digs into the back of my skull, but remains stuck when I try to pull at it. Securely held by the tightness of the cord on my forehead rests a perfectly soft shred of triangular cloth.
Destiny. Fate. Whatever you'd like to call it, the straight and narrow path I'd set out to walk has already become so turbulent. Once, on that fateful day when my mother had taken me to the edge of the bamboo forest, I had learned to appreciate the strangeness of Gensokyo - perhaps appreciate it, in some way. To think that such a place would eventually become my haunting ground leaves me anxious of abandoning my grandiose dreams of experiencing the dangerous, swarthy lands beyond the borders of the village. Without much celebration, I was there, standing before the one who would send me to the afterlife, and like that, any hope of freedom had been extinguished. I take the opportunity to admire these darkened, early-morning woods, watching the river lap up over the rocks, catching glimpses of fairies hovering above the canopies, knowing that I would never see anything beyond a stretch of bamboo for the rest of my days.
And then, I walk.
I trudge past the frozen clearings and forests, pass through subterranean networks and the snow-capped peaks of hills and mountains like one would traverse their own home. The sun sets, and rises again the next morning without incident. Meandering through the rains and sleet-sheeted mornings, the familiar sight of bamboo fills my vision in what seems like an instant. The quietness of death makes it simple to traverse the noise of the growth around me. My tracks have been completely covered by rounds of snowfall, and yet I can recall them perfectly. The events of that day - the feelings I experienced for the first time, the suffering I endured, are the only memories that matter to me anymore. Every other name I've known, every friendship, family member and half-baked lover, fades into obscurity, into the background, to make way for that day, which I remember with absolute clarity. As I plant my feet in the ground, only those things can come to mind. Only one place, one time, one battle, one instant.
And one name.
"Fujiwara no Mokou!"
From within her modest home, I hear something break, followed by an annoyed moan seconds later. The woman comes barrelling out onto her porch looking none too pleased about being disturbed. Such is the fury I've managed to incite that she doesn't even seem to recognise who I am.
"Go back to hell!" She throws something at me with impressive accuracy. It careens towards my head at a pretty dangerous speed.
My sword flashes in the afternoon sunlight. Without much thought at all, my right hand finds the hilt easily and brings the blade up and through the air, colliding with the missile mid-flight. Whether I struck with the edge or the flat eludes me in the moment, but rather than splitting in two, the object shatters and pelts my face with sharpened pieces of broken clay. I'm actually exceptionally good at this sort of thing - using my sword to cut various objects out of the air. It was something the children in the village loved to watch me do, and with no other practical way to test my swings, I ended up getting rather good at it. Over time, it must have become an instinctual response, something I could do on a whim, because I didn't actually understand what happened until I began spitting ceramic fragments out of my mouth.
"Pthoo." I make sure not to swallow any, using the moment to calm down before replying, "...What the hell do you think you're doing!?"
"Don't suddenly yell someone's name like that! I dropped one of my tea cups thanks to you!"
So that's what that was. It didn't look that broken when she threw it at me, but it certainly does now.
"I came back to kill you!"
"Huh!? Came back from where!?"
"The Sanzu River!"
"Huuuuh!? You're that bastard!?"
I spot her silhouette dancing behind the paper of the doors as she grumpily strides back into her home, probably to retrieve the same shortsword she used to kill me before. Unaffected by exhaustion or my own growling stomach, I can finally appreciate the uniqueness of such a remote and inaccessible building. Sliding the front doors open to expose the porch brings to mind days touched by the heat of summer, although it's a strange thing to see during such a wicked winter. Fujiwara must be of the type who manage the cold well. Why would she choose to live somewhere so out of the way? Even as a spirit bound by a fate unfulfilled, I find myself wondering simple things like that. It isn't a moment later when she comes bounding out into the cold, the rusted-red blade of her weapon reflecting not even an inch of the snow's lustre.
"Alright~" Her breath forming whisps in the air, she casually begins stretching her arms, "Then, this makes it round two."
"Why do you use such an old blade?" I point a finger at her, genuinely curious.
"This?" She stares at it with bored eyes, "I just never find the time to replace it, is all."
"No, no..." I wave my hand dismissively, "You could use a sword your entire life and it wouldn't end up looking as bad as that."
"You act like I couldn't kill anyone with it." She replies, "-But, it killed you just fine, didn't it? Maybe it's your own sword that's useless."
"You-" I stammer, "Fujiwara!"
Cutting from a sheathed position isn't impossible to do. There are many disciplines that rely almost entirely on this concept - Iaidō especially focuses on honing a rapid response to sudden danger, and perfecting the art of drawing and striking with one's sword in a fluid motion. The trick that I accomplished earlier with the teacup could be described as a form of this, however useless it might have been. It's unfortunate that the same instinct doesn't overcome me when I try something similar on Fujiwara. My strike carries very little weight and travels at an abysmal speed, allowing her to parry it with a quick flourish. I'm worked into a vulnerable position that exposes my whole body for a split second, but no counterattack comes, giving me the time to step back and put distance between the two of us.
"Ah, this is really no good..." She sighs pitifully, "I'll end up with bad karma if I kill someone twice."
Considering I'm a spirit, she could probably kill me more than twice if it pleases her.
"Now that I think about it, would cutting you down even get rid of you?"
"Uh-" I loosen my stance somewhat, "Actually, I was just thinking something similar."
Unless she took me back to the Sanzu River, surely I would just get back up, or rematerialize after a while. Even if she did, I could just jump off the boat once more, although I'm not too keen on the idea of doing that again. There's always the possibility that someone could exorcise me, but the charms tied into her hair and plastered across her baggy hakama don't seem to have any effect on me. A shrine maiden or someone in some such position could probably banish me quite easily, but I doubt there are many of them to be found in this maze-like forest.
Fujiwara lowers her shortsword, "Guess I'll just-"
"Hmph!"
I'm proud of my horizontal slashes. While restrictive in their ability to target vital areas of the body, the motion makes for a faster attack from an unguarded position where the sword isn't poised for the more lethal vertical slash. The speed makes it difficult to react to, and slashing alongside an opponent's body provides one with a wider range of often less-defended targets, such as the legs. With her weapon in a loose grip at her side, raising it in time to block the full force of a two-handed swing should be near impossible, without even considering the poor state her wakizashi is in.
And yet, my sword cleaves nothing but thin air.
How is that?
Naturally, Fujiwara simply stepped back to avoid it. This is normally an excellent way to disrupt the intense concentration needed during duels, potentially ruining one's footwork. For an instant, she is left in an unfavourable position - the perfect time for a follow-up, but I had no such thing planned from the start. Even with the element of surprise, my attack was far too slow. With this, I have experienced two duels, and my sword is yet to taste anything besides cold wind and clay pots.
Could there be some truth to Fujiwara's words, then? In the hands of one so inexperienced, is my sword truly nothing better than the dull, rusted edge she nevertheless strikes so cleanly with?
Falling into despair certainly wouldn't help me. While I'm yet to suffer a wound of any kind, battles are as much emotional as they are physical. In a standoff between the truly masterful, outcomes are often decided before first blood is shed. Contemporary swordsmen are proficient with more wordly things than just their blades. Painting, theatre, philosophy - the concept of the 'warrior poets' who are as much masters of themselves as they are of combat persists as the ideal image to cultivate within oneself.
I am not a poet, and neither am I much of a swordsman, as it turns out.
"Fujiwara..." My sword falls into the snow, "Am I too weak?"
"Hm." She double-checks her shirt to see if I actually cut her, "How long have you been practicing for?"
"Around eight years or so."
"You're definitely too weak." She judges harshly.
"I realise that now." I reply, "Could I ask you the same question?"
"Huh..." That seems to give her pause. She thinks for a moment, "...Long enough, I guess."
"You've killed others before."
"Just a few." She affirms without much thought, "Though I don't normally fight with a sword."
"Are you a Youkai?"
"Do I look like one?"
"You do."
"Then let's just say I am. It'll make things simpler."
Perhaps this is why the ferrywoman let me get away as easily as I did. The fire of vengeance that burned within my soul saw to it that I'd plummet through that river of despair and return, at least partially, to the world of the living, but what good is there in seeing through death to accomplish the impossible? Without question, this woman, whatever she may be, sits atop a peak higher than I thought possible. It's a gap that can only be bridged by experience alone - no amount of training can prepare me for an opponent so familiar with death.
"So?" Fujiwara continues, "Do you feel like giving up on trying to kill me?"
"I've already thrown away my humanity in exchange for as many chances as I want."
How hypocritical of me, questioning whether she's a Youkai as if I can be called human anymore. This headband is proof enough that I won't be laid to rest until my last wish is fulfilled. Though revealing, or painful, or embarassing, I have no right to simply walk away. My sword seems heavier than it last was when I bent down to retrieve it. I scrutinise the specifics of its design for a simple excuse that could solve everything, but come up with nothing. The village smiths can't possibly be compared to the legends of old, but this katana is a strong one. It simply needs a heart to wield it.
"Fujiwara." I sheathe it with some hesitation, "Would you train me?"
"Sure."
"I don't have-" The world seems to freeze, "...Excuse me?"
"You aren't going to leave until you kill me, right?" She fold her arms behind her head, "So, if I help you out, that means you'll be gone sooner."
"I appreciate the willingness, but aren't you being a little too bureaucratic about this?"
"It's what I get for just cutting someone down without thinking about it." She replies, "If I'd given you some food back then, you might've left me alone."
"You sound confident about it. Are you a particularly good teacher?"
"Hm." She ponders that question deeply, "No, I don't think so."
"How honest." I can't help but feel a little discouraged, "But, strength like yours isn't the type of thing I can match in a matter of days."
"I know." Her expression is neither worried nor conflicted. Only bored, "The way you're going, it'll take a couple of years before I can seriously call you an opponent."
"That's quite a while."
"Well, that's assuming you'll be training day and night." She continues, "So, maybe longer."
"What about eating? And sleeping?"
"Huh?" She leans forward, hands in her pockets, "Aren't you a ghost?"
"I'm hungry and tired right now, so I don't think I've been granted that kind of freedom."
"Can't you just work through it?"
"Erm, no?" I shoot down that suggestion before it gets out of hand, "I'd die if I did that."
"You'd just come back."
"Maybe so, but..."
Does she have no appreciation for how fickle a thing life is? Whether Youkai or not, a certain amount of respect for another day without death is necessary in a land as unforgiving as Gensokyo. I've heard tales of terribly powerful Youkai who could level mountains if it pleased them. Does Fujiwara also belong to such a sanctum of strength? Those who have lived long enough to blossom such attitudes must have made peace with death long ago. Compared to us pitiable humans, who are given less than a century to create worthwhile memories, we must be worlds apart. Even a single exchange with this strange woman is enough to prove the difference in experience between us.
"Next year."
She speaks those words without any meaning attached to them, but I can understand well enough what she's implying.
"Next winter, we'll fight again." She elaborates, "You'll die. One-hundred percent. But you'll just come back, won't you?"
It's a dramatic and counterintuitive suggestion. Even to one so long-lived as a Youkai, a day is still a day, and a year is still a year. Having only one chance to fell Fujiwara every winter presents a number of easily-solvable issues. There is no guarantee that I will be in the best shape for a duel, and my nerves on the day would make it even more difficult to claim victory. It would be simpler for us to fight every week or two. I would have more opportunities to study her strengths while tempering my own. Without question, I should air these thoughts and discuss a more efficient plan.
But, wouldn't that go against everything I set out to do?
My dream is unfolding before my very eyes. On a cloud-covered morning amidst the bamboo, with snowflakes hanging in the air, a beautiful hermit sincerely promises that on this day, one year from now, a duel will take place. A fulfilling need, a purpose that steps beyond the simple occasion of practice, rears up from within my heart. For the very first time, I will train for myself, rather than my pride, not only to claim victory in the singular moment where my swordsmanship truly matters, but to create the idealistic romance that suspends a warrior's soul, that pushes one towards perfection - understanding, not only of the self but of the world that surrounds us.
"...Then, I'll be in your care from now on." My heart is at peace for just a moment.
"Well said." Encouraging or not, there's something dependable about those words, "Let's get going."
"Hm?" I tilt my head as she begins walking off, "To where?"
"You said you were hungry, didn't you?" She raises a hand to her side matter-of-factly, "All this river talk is getting me in the mood for lamprey. I'll show you a good place nearby."
So began that time, marked by the long-cast shadows of bamboo stalks. Mornings and evenings of uninhibited strangeness, passed by in that shell of a body dredged up from the fathomless abyss of the Sanzu Riverbed. Days spent whittling towards an impossible goal. Under the tutelage of my own enemy, the sun rises and sets on the passing months like nothing else, moving irresistibly towards that fateful moment.
When the snow falls again.
Happy new year
