THERE WAS A SHIP
Scribe Figaro
Chapter One
One of Three
It is an ancient Mariner
And she stoppeth one of three
I.
A few years ago, she would never have forgiven herself for this.
The trick was so obvious, a taiji-ya such as her should not have fallen for it.
A few years ago, her father would have gripped her shoulder. She would have turned to her, moved his head side to side, very slowly, and pointed out to the hole in the ice before her.
There, she would have seen beyond the illusion. The thing splashing in the river was not a child, Sango. It was an illusion, one a taiji-ya should never have fallen for.
In places like these, far from any village, the river-gods became lonely, and would resort to tricks. They would become cruel in their loneliness, and the only thing to satisfy them would be the lives of foolish travelers.
Did he know? Did the houshi beside her see that it was a trick? He called her name as she dropped Hiraikotsu and raced to the bank. Was he simply surprised by her actions, and had not seen the child in the water?
Or did he see the child, and know it was a false child, and seek to warn her? How close did his hand come to grip her shoulder?
No. He was not her father. Houshi-sama was hers, and she his, and he would protect her. But he would not scold her like a petulant child. He would not question her instincts, even if he believed she was wrong.
He trusted her judgment, even when she might die.
The shock of the cold disarmed her. The river was icy, but she hoped her taiji-ya uniform would be enough to keep her warm, at least for a few moments. But the cold struck her hard, and her head ached, her eyes burned.
She realized the trick then, and even underwater, she could draw her blade quickly enough to dispatch the river-demon that was once river-god.
She rose to the surface, and a hand reached beneath one shoulder and helped her upward.
"Sango! Are you hurt?"
Her hair was plastered to her face and down her back. Her hands were already red and raw from cold.
"Damned youkai trick," she hissed. "I'm freezing."
She crossed her arms over her chest as he placed a hand on her shoulder.
"We'll find some shelter then," he said
Her feet were heavy, and each step was met by a stabbing sensation over each foot. She wasn't sure if it was frostbite, or merely her toes being rubbed raw in her wet boots, but the sensation of pain was reassuring. When things went numb, then she would worry.
Still, her senses were dull. She heard Houshi-sama, and knew he was speaking to her, but she couldn't tell what the words were.
II.
When next she opened her eyes, it was dark.
But there was a light, not far from her. She focused her eyes, and now her ears recognized the sound of light pine burning, and the scent filled her nostrils.
A dark figure appeared in her view.
"How are you feeling, Sango?" he asked.
She smiled slightly, as she recognized the face of her companion.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"An overhang, not far from where you fell in. Just something to get us out of the wind."
"You carried me here?"
He nodded.
"You're very light, you know. I swear that Hiraikotsu is heavier than even a sopping wet Sango."
She smiled, and as he leaned back, she regarded his clothes. A light white kimono, like the one he wore beneath his robes.
She studied the fire closer, and noticed her clothes hanging on poles propped about the fire, still steaming with moisture.
Looking down, she realized she was sleeping beneath his kesa, and his wide black robe was wrapped about her body.
She blushed.
"My clothes," she said.
"Still drying."
She studied his face carefully. She didn't trust him, not entirely, but she knew he was a bad liar.
"You didn't do anything."
Was that a statement or a question? She didn't know herself.
He did not answer. If she had blinked, she would have missed the look of hurt that came and went like the flames that flickered beside them.
"I'm sorry," she said. I'm sorry I don't trust you. I want to trust you.
He turned toward her, to say something reassuring, but she closed her eyes and suddenly couldn't hear him.
III.
The rain came at him, cold steel arrowheads, and beneath his arms he held the precious bundle, the thing that would keep him and the girl alive. It had taken nearly an hour to locate the sturdy branches that found meager protection beneath a deadfall, and he had wrapped it in what clothes he had left, and yet still would not keep dry for much longer.
For this reason, knowing how dangerous it would be to loose the fire, knowing how unlikely it would be for him to locate more firewood if he – for any reason – tossed this bundle carelessly aside, he did not immediately run after the girl. He saw the form escape from the overhang where they had been encamped – a black koromo, a priest's robe which moved too lithely, too unlike the taller, more heavy-set man who normally wore it.
The clothing did not move in such a way that it appeared the person wearing it wore it poorly. Rather, it seemed as if it had trouble keeping up.
He placed the bundle in a hollow of a tree, and only then ran after her.
He did not bother calling her name, for he knew she would not answer, and would probably not even hear his voice. She was without her taiji-ya tools, and she was barefoot, and he caught up to her easily on the banks of the river. He got a firm hold on her collar, but she slid effortlessly from the rain-heavy robe and did not slow down. She ran very fast when she was naked. She managed twenty more steps, and he got her arms around her, and her skin was slick and clammy, her chest heaved beneath his hands, and her elbow was hard and rough against his nose, and the cheekbone directly beneath his left eye, and his nose again, and he managed to get one arm over her shoulder and leaned backwards, bringing them both to the ground. He found the pressure point on her neck, pressed tightly with fingers, spat blood, and she got in one more good shot at his face before she went limp.
He carried her back to the overhang, and conveniently enough, her own clothes were dry now, so he drew her kosode over her, went back to retrieve the firewood and his robe, and sighed with resignation as he realized the rain had washed the incantations from her skin.
I suppose that was the intent, Miroku thought. But it makes no difference. The storm wants her, and the river wants her, and neither will have her.
It would be a long night for him, a night of watchful vigil and meditation and prayer.
He was certain his struggle could not be compared to hers.
I know you are in darkness, Sango.
But there is a light.
IV.
Her first thought was a curse on the monk for not letting her drown.
She knew he would violate her wishes, her very clear instructions, but the predictability of his action did not dull the frustration and anger she felt. Her soul belonged in another place. How dare he keep her here? She was still so unclean, an offense to all good things.
It was embarrassing.
He sat between her and the fire, wearing only a white kosode, for the bulk of his clothes were now wrapped around her. She focused on the flames, letting them sear her eyes, and had she strength to disentangle her arms from the monk's robes she would have taken hot coals and run them up and down her body to burn away her sins.
It began with the Water God.
So many things had happened in the past ten years that she had forgotten the Water God entirely. It was such a minor thing. A six-year-old girl who travels with her father, a girl who had never left the village before and now found herself a week's journey from her home, sees so much, and fears so much, that she could not have been expected to remember the storm that had nearly claimed her life, and in failing, made promise to claim her life when she next returned to its influence.
She lived, and her father lived, and they returned, unsuccessful, to her ailing mother. Her father had known all along that the rumors of medicines in the West were nothing more than some desperate manifestation of his ailing heart, that he would sooner find Buddha's begging bowl than he would find the proper remedy for the sickness that whittled away his wife and the child she carried.
Sango's mother surprised the village women with her strength, and bore a healthy child, and nursed him for days on end, giving the taijiya heir the last of her strength. She called him Kohaku, for while he was soft as day-old tree sap as he fumbled and failed for her breast, she knew the child would grow, and hold his weapon high, and be hard as stone when the time came, and making this prophecy with one foot in the next world, she stepped boldly with the other, and Sango cried.
For this reason, Sango forgot for ten years that she was cursed. A debt of flesh and blood on the ledger of the Water God.
The river collected on this debt.
The river took her life.
So was as good a place as any for Sango to return.
Sango, who had killed her friends.
Sango, who renounced all things human and swore loyalty to her father's murderer.
Sango, who laid herself naked before Death.
Sango, who Death would not take.
Sango could tell this to anyone, must tell this to someone, and of Inuyasha, Kagome, and Miroku, she knew any of the three could hear, but only one of three would know.
Turning to the monk before her, Sango made her confession.
The monk listened.
He listened to every word.