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janvangouden · 4 years ago

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CHRYSANTHEMUMS

a hunter investigates a ghost in the woods that has been plaguing the village & terrorizing the other local hunters, only to find it to be a long lost friend. longer short story, about 20 pages in normal format. written by jan van gouden.

The hunter Genjirou liked to fancy himself a bit of a local celebrity, as he brought in the majority of the food for the village– fat pheasants, meaty rabbits, even sometimes a wild boar. The village was one that did not so much pride itself on its inhabitants’ individualism as it did their sense of community. They didn’t care to have the claim to fame of any famous actor born there, nor any famous samurai… they cared for one another deeply, & silently agreed not to get caught up in any selfish ambition. The artists of Passions collaborated & worked on elaborate projects together, the children always played together, the hunters often hunted together.

Despite his self-assurance, Genjirou was actually quite unpopular amongst the villagers, & considered rude for hunting individually. They did not care for his talent, and while they ate his food, they did not do it with so much enjoyment, perhaps finding it soured by his individualism. Nobody in Passions liked to gossip, but if they did, there would certainly be some cruel words exchanged about the hunter behind his back, especially from the other hunters, who were deep-down jealous of the considerable stock he seemed to always bring back every time he hunted.

Genjirou did not pay these sentiments any mind, even as he was intimately aware they were abrew. He’d grown up parent-less and knew he at least had some of the village’s sympathy over at least that fact, & that they presumed he was so stand-offish because he felt he was alone in the world. Sometimes a pretty young maiden, Fuku, sought him out and offered him lilies from her garden, but he rejected her kindness. He did not do so cruelly, only smiling and asking if she didn’t have anybody more handsome to tend her attentions to, that a pretty girl like her shouldn’t worry over a guy like him…

This only spurred Fuku’s interest in him, & she’d secretly follow him on hunts sometimes, watching with intense interest as he played his game. Fish, deer, wild boar, & even a bear once! Over the course of a few weeks, her friends finally convinced her to stop following him & offering lilies, & she did, although deep in her heart she still loved him.

“Look at that Genjirou, there’s a storm brewing on his face,” a village elder murmured to her husband, fanning herself as the two sat on a bench outside a small store. “He’s probably realising he can’t stop pushing the world away, but is in denial,” her husband chuckled, as he knit away at what looked like a baby sweater. “He’s young, isn’t he, only twenty-two? He’s probably going through a phase… not too long ago, he used to be quite social.”

They chuckled quietly but averted their gaze when Genjirou stomped by, pale, rushing into the store. The store owner couldn’t help but to giggle when he walked in, propping her arm up on the counter. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she remarked, choosing to busy herself with dusting off some vases.

“Why did nobody tell me a man was murdered in the woods?” Genjirou exclaimed, staring at her like she was a monster. He had come across a corpse earlier that day, already purplish from decay, bloated beyond recognition, & on full display in the middle of the grounds where he usually hunted. “You would have known if you hunted with the others,” she scolded him, flicking her feather duster towards him. Genjirou grit his teeth. Sometimes the people of Passions worked on his nerves insatiably– he was introverted by nature, shy, & didn’t like to constantly associate with others like everyone else seemed to, & it always seemed to blow up in his face. Namely, everybody always knew “the scoop” on everything, while he was left blind as a bat on any news, & had to practically beg.

He already knew the shopkeeper knew the story behind the corpse. His demeanor suddenly grew much more meek, and sheepish, as he asked, “What is the story behind him? It’s odd a body just lies so disgracefully in the middle of a clearing like that.”

She pursed her lips. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the hunters; they told me not to tell you the story… as for why he was there…” A hum; she wrinkled her nose in disapproval and lowered her voice. “That was a mean prank; they were messing with you because you never hunt with them… I don’t like to gossip, but I think it was very rude, not to mention disrespectful to the deceased, that they did that… I think they’ll be lucky if they’re not haunted on their next hunts.”

A glint of curiosity shone in her eyes. “What did you do when you saw the body? I think I would have passed out, tee hee.”

“I buried it,” Genjirou said simply. He found it disgraceful already how the disfigured corpse was laid out in the middle of the grass, even if it was clothed in burial robes, but he found it even more disgraceful somebody had placed it there on purpose.

“You buried it!” she gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. “That’s even more scary… what if it wants a grave? What if it haunts the whole village? Oh, oh….” She paused. “...one more thing… please don’t tell the hunters I told you about what they did when you get with them. I have a bit of a big mouth, if I’m being honest. But, you weren’t supposed to know they moved the corpse. Only ask about the corpse itself, ok?”

Genjirou felt his mood entirely ruined, but, grumbling, he agreed, then left the store to find the hunters.

He found them easily, like they were hoping to be found, outside a building exchanging words & laughing. When Genjirou approached them, they fell silent, and the humour in their eyes turned a reproachful coldness. They wore their hair in prim and trim top-knots, as was customary, while Genjirou wore his uncut & loose, only inviting more scorn from the villagers. Scorn, scorn, scorn. He sometimes just wanted to go wild, feeling like no matter what he did, it wouldn’t matter; he wouldn’t be accepted anyways!

“Good afternoon, Genjirou,” one spoke up, putting a hand up to him. “How was the hunt?”

“What was with the corpse in the woods?”

The hunters exchanged a few odd looks with one another. “Oh, you saw it, too? Wasn’t that scary? He wasn’t someone from our village, we know that for sure.”

Genjirou wanted to ask them to cut the bullshit, but he was too polite. Still, a wrinkle in his brow conveyed his frustration. “What’s his story? Who was he? Why was he just out in the open like that?”

After a long silence, one finally said, “Choyakoshi. We’re guessing that’s his name, anyways, since the characters were crudely written in ink on his kimono somewhere.” Choyakoshi had worn a slightly tattered, dirtied white kimono. It was folded right-over-left, meaning he must have been buried in it. “Why wasn’t he buried?” Genjirou repeated his question, but worded it differently.

The hunters exchanged glances with each other, & ultimately shrugged. “We don’t know, either. We’re sending one of the morticians to the mountain tomorrow to see what he can figure out.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Genjirou said hesitantly, drawing questioning glances. “I already buried him.”

“You buried him!” one of the hunters exclaimed. “What if he isn’t happy with the burial, & he haunts our village because of it?!”

“Then let him!” Genjirou spat. “I’ll be happier with that!”

He stormed off, blocking out the commotion the other hunters caused in his trail.

Did you hear that? I know Genjirou isn’t very social, but I think he totally hates us!

How dare he! We haven’t done anything to him, & now he’s practically wishing some ghost would come haunt us?

What nerve! What if this Choyakoshi is a cruel and vengeful spirit?

Genjirou didn’t let their words get to him– he knew that no matter what he did, they’d find some reason to dislike him. Same old same old.

At least, he thought their words didn’t get to him. That evening, nobody touched a lick of the considerably-smaller-than-usual bit of food he’d brought to the village dinner, and not even Fuku attempted to say a word to him, averting her gaze when he pleadingly looked over at her. She giggled instead with her friend, ignoring him as he stared emptily at his plate.

In times of good weather, the village always insisted every dinner be shared, outside, and the village leader would make a big deal about having a vast space cleared out, and every person who could cook or hunt or farm bringing something to the great potluck. Genjirou attended because he felt obligated to more than anything, but after quietly finishing his food, his sense of obligation disappeared, along with him, as he receded to his house.

It was considered very rude to leave before everybody had finished eating, and of course, there was a tiny uproar and a string of murmurs as Genjirou left. He’s so cold; what’s his problem?

It’s bad enough that he already hunts alone… does he really have to make such a point out of being an outcast?

I wish he would just be friends with us already. Can’t he see how hard we’re trying to help him fit in?

Parents or no parents, you’d think that after twenty-two years of living here, he’d know how to behave. Tsk.

Genjirou felt immensely weak and pitiful as he brushed tears from his eyes that night, silently sobbing himself to sleep. He didn’t get out of bed the following morning to hunt as he usually did, finding he couldn’t work up the energy nor the passion to. In fact, he slept until about noon, and even when he officially woke up, he just lay there, contemplating if in fact he was very rude and dislikable, and whether he should work on his personality. He self-consciously fretted, melting into a puddle of his own thoughts, and crying, for a good two hours, unable to piece together just why he was feeling so miserable.

He was fairly well-off from what money he did make selling furs & other homemade goods from the leftovers of his prey to other villages & sometimes the villagers. He was very fit, & had someone who he knew had a crush on him, even if he wasn’t interested, so he couldn’t be ugly. He didn’t feel particularly sad, so why was he still crying? If nothing else, he was very thankful no one from the village could see him in such a pitiful state.

Right as he thought this, a knock sounded at the door and he stifled a yelp, quickly wiping as much from his eyes as he could. The knock sounded again, more urgently, and he squinted as he opened the door, the sun glaring at him from up above. “Genjirou, I don’t want to sound accusatory, but–” It was the shopkeeper, Toyo, rapidly fanning herself. “–have you been hunting today?”

“I just woke up,” Genjirou said so earnestly she knew he wasn’t lying. “Oh, it’s just terrible… the hunters sent me to come get you; they want you to come to my shop…”

“Why didn’t they come get me themselves?” Genjirou asked, irritated. Toyo fanned herself, hiding the lower half of her face, eyes shifting to the side. Genjirou didn’t ask again. “Fine. May I at least know what happened?”

“They wanted to tell you themselves… don’t tell them I told you already, but the hunter Hideto died today… he’d been pierced by an arrow! Please follow me… they’re trying to blame you for it; they’re very sore right now.”

Genjirou didn’t bother cleaning up, & garnered some odd looks as he followed Toyo through town, still wearing his sleeping robes, hair disheveled and eyes heavy. It was clear that, at two o’clock in the afternoon, he had just gotten out of bed. For the villagers, who usually operated on a clock from eight A.M to nine P.M, this was very unusual. At the store, Genjirou was immediately confronted by the remaining seven of the eight hunters. “Were you out hunting today, Genjirou?” one spit accusingly, jabbing a finger against his chest. “I was not!” Genjirou immediately defended himself, covering his chest, half to protect it, and half self-consciously, as he realised it was mostly bare.

Toyo pretended to be busy in the background, feverishly organising some trinkets on a high shelf in order from small to large and then back to large to small. The hunters glared at him suspiciously, but like Toyo, they had no reason not to believe the man who looked like he’d just woken up. Good thing I wasn’t, he thought to himself, thinking back on his profound moment of sadness. As awful as it had been, it saved him from getting tangled up in these accusations. “Hideto died,” another hunter lamented, fiddling with an arrow from his satchel. “He was shot by an arrow, like this one… but it wasn’t any of ours.”

The men all suddenly seemed very sheepish, and looked downwards, realising how pointless it was to question the man. They knew he made an easy scapegoat, and they knew they were accusing him for no reason. Not all seemed to let the matter go so easily, however, as one suddenly spoke up, “It must be that Choyakoshi ghost! He’s probably furious he wasn’t given a proper burial!”

The other hunters were quick to agree with him, and again, Genjirou was put in the negative spotlight, this time blamed for the hypothetical haunting. Now he was the one hanging his head low, not having the energy to argue with them. Instead, he quietly trudged out of the store back to his house. The hunters took this as a victory and yelled behind him, but this time he truly paid them no mind, only wanting to sleep again. At least when he was asleep, he didn’t have to deal with any of the villagers’ drama. When he returned, he noticed a trampled bunch of chrysanthemums scattered in front of his house. He paid them no mind.

The following morning, he woke up with a splitting head and stomach ache, and remembered he hadn’t eaten, let alone drank, a thing the day before. He pulled on a proper robe and fixed his hair, hoping to be able to make it through the village unbothered. He left his bow and arrow and his swords at home, still not having the energy to hunt, and also not wanting to risk any more serious accusations. On his doorstep, he found a fresh bundle of pure white chrysanthemums, bound by a silk ribbon that smelled of lilac.

Smiling and suddenly feeling much better, he picked up the bouquet and carefully set it in a long-empty stone vase atop his dresser. He made a mental note to thank Fuku for the kind gesture later.

He purchased a bowl of soup, a lamb chop, and some water from Passions’s inn and restaurant. The shopkeeper had a sort of sad look in his eye as he watched Genjirou eat, and Genjirou avoided looking at him at all– he knew well what his reputation was in the village by now, and this man, like the rest of them, surely either pitied or hated him. He wanted to associate with neither sentiment. After he finished eating, he set out to find Fuku, walking a few rounds around the village in hopes of catching her outside. He found her, but when he did, she avoided his gaze and acted like she hadn’t heard him after he called out for her, instead turning to her friend and murmuring something. The two giggled and Genjirou froze, not daring to approach them anymore. He hated how timid he was sometimes, but decided it was better to be the dog with its tail between its legs than the lamb on the cutting board.

Still, it was perplexing. Why would she leave him flowers, then not even acknowledge him? Complicated feelings, maybe, or her friend didn’t like him. Whatever. He already had more than enough stressing him out as it stood; he certainly didn’t want to trifle with yet another thing.

As soon as he got home and was about to close the door behind him, a sandaled foot wedged itself in the doorway. Toyo! “Genjirou– I really hate to bother you again, but you-know-who is asking for your presence again in my humble shop.” She muttered, “Why don’t they do this stuff in one of their own places, anyways? I’m seriously about to ban them from entering more than one at a time.”

“Let me guess,” Genjirou huffed. “Someone else died?”

“Actually, yes.”

He immediately went pale, biting his lip. “Why do they keep bothering me about it?! I’m very sorry this is happening, but at the rate things are going, I might not even want to attend their funeral!”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Toyo hissed, fanning at the air as though she were combatting mini-ghosts. Her kimono was a brilliant white, decorated with koi and tangerine trees. The white reminded Genjirou of the corpse’s burial clothes, & he wondered if maybe this really was a haunting, & if he really was to blame. He suddenly blushed and apologised for his rudeness. “There’s no need to apologise; I don’t think they’re ghosts, yet… I say, you can do or say whatever you want as long as you know you won’t suffer any consequences. That’s why I’m very careful with my words.”

Right, Genjirou thought. How many secrets had she let loose in her lifetime?

“Anyways, please come with me… as you can imagine, they’re very bitter, and I’m sure it’s better you meet them in my store, which at least I know they don’t want to burn down.” She laughed nervously, looking the house in front of her up and down.

And so, Genjirou once again trudged to Toyo’s store, and he was once again chewed out. “I saw the ghost!” one hunter declared, putting up an arm high above himself. “He was this tall, but was definitely the corpse from the other day… he was armed with a bow and arrow surely laced with evil energy, and shot down poor Genta…”

Again, a finger was jabbed against Genjirou’s chest, with such force it knocked the younger man back a few steps. “...this is your doing, Genjirou!! If you hadn’t buried him… what did you do, just dig into the dirt a little and toss his body in there?!” Genjirou flushed a deep shade of crimson. That was exactly what he had done. “It’s better than letting his body rot out in the open!” he half-heartedly asserted, knowing there was no way he’d win this argument. “Tell that to Genta and Hideto!” the hunter sneered. The remaining six of the eight hunters seemed very self-assured they wouldn’t be the ones to die next, all their noses stuck in the air with a sort of pretentious air as they confronted Genjirou.

Deep in his mind, Genjirou couldn’t help but to ponder if anyone had even died at all, or if this was all just some twisted scheme to get back at him for hunting alone. The hunters didn’t seem particularly fazed beyond rage at their friends’ deaths; then again, they rarely ever showed any real emotion, and liked to poke fun at men who did, insulting them by calling them womanly. Genjirou always wondered if they were at all self-conscious of how insulting it was to find womanhood a “bad” trait, and if they were, if they cared.

Having no comeback, Genjirou dared himself to quietly retreat. Seeing that the hunters made no effort to stop him, he ran back to his house, not caring that they saw him as a total coward. Let the negatives stack up. A coward, a traitor, a bringer of evil, an asshole… what difference does it make if there is another bad thing said about me, when there is already so much? Genjirou, rolled up inside his blanket, found himself sobbing again, unable to control it. He had always felt at least tolerated in Passions, but now he felt outright disliked. The only pleasant thought he had as he drifted yet again into sleep, having nothing else to occupy himself with, came with the whiff of his chrysanthemums’ scent drifting by, evoking images of Fuku, who he felt was his only possible friend in the village.

He woke up very early in the morning, and found, yet again, by his doorstep, a fresh bundle of white chrysanthemums, tied with a silk ribbon. He managed to squeeze them next to the other bundle in the vase, and added some water. It was six in the morning; nobody in the village was awake yet. Feeling emboldened by this striking solitude, Genjirou retreated to put on his hunting clothes and grab his bow and arrow, deciding that he’d either confront the ghost or do what he enjoyed, hunting, without letting himself be dragged down by his fears & insecurities.

& so, with only the light of the barely-rising sun, he set out to go hunt, secretly hoping he wouldn’t encounter anyone in the woods, let alone this allegedly fearsome, murderous spirit. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a ruse. Genta and Hideto were probably hiding out somewhere in the village to throw a scare into Genjirou, & maybe even to keep him away from the mountains, since the hunters were always jealous of how much he brought in by himself.

The dew of the grass brushed against his sandaled feet and the air smelled crisp and fresh. He drank some water from a river to refresh himself, then hunted marvelously as ever, carrying, two hours later, four pheasants and a boar. He found the site where he’d buried the corpse and leaned by it, frowning as he dug down a foot or so, revealing the rotting face. I really did bury him poorly… I hope he isn’t actually insulted, Genjirou thought, deciding then & there to dig a deeper hole. He shuddered a bit, feeling as though somebody was watching him… he shook the feeling off.

This time, he carefully placed the body in, taking care to fold the arms over the chest and neatly adjust the burial clothing. Satisfied, he placed a pheasant atop the body, then carefully covered it in dirt again. He’d taken a chrysanthemum with him to put on top of the grave, which he hoped was this time less crude. He said a quick blessing, then found a nice spot next to the river to enjoy the spoils of his hunt alone. He knew this was an area of the woods the other hunters rarely visited, so he felt confident starting a fire to roast a pheasant there, until he heard a clamour in the distance, coming closer.

Genjirou scrambled to put out the fire and panicked when he saw the silhouettes of the hunters in the distance. Unable to find anywhere to hide, he dove into the river behind a rock, breathing only when he was certain they couldn’t see him. He cursed that his pheasants and boar had been left behind, knowing that the hunters would surely take it as their own. It was unlikely they expected him to have regained his confidence so much as to go hunting, let alone dare to to begin with given the recent events. Genjirou vigilantly listened. He heard some laughs, as they engaged in idle chatter, and some excitement as they stumbled upon what was supposed to have been his breakfast, lunch, dinner, and then some. He then heard shouting.

Looking behind the rock, his eyes locked with one of the hunters. Terrified he’d been seen, he submerged himself in the river, holding his breath for his dear life. Even through the water, he could hear the shouting on land had gotten louder, and cursed himself for being alive. Why? Why’d they just have to come out hunting so soon? Why couldn’t I have finished my meal in peace?

Unbeknownst to Genjirou, Fuku had followed him into the woods as she’d done in her lovesick days– however, her motive wasn’t as sweet as it once had been. Gento had been Fuku’s cousin, & following his death and the rumours in the village, she’d grown awfully cold and suspicious towards Genjirou, & secretly followed him to see if he was up to anything suspicious. So far, her surveillance had been futile, but that day, as she followed him into the woods, she was certain she’d catch him in the act of killing, confirming her, & the villagers’ suspicions.

She got more than she bargained for, however, as she had to put her hands over her mouth to stifle a scream when an arrow pierced through one of the hunters’ shoulders out of seemingly nowhere. Scrambling to find the source without giving away her position, her eyes went backwards from where the arrow had landed, resting upon an awful-looking creature hidden behind a tree like she was. Its aim was off; it seemed to have been distracted by something in the water. It drew another arrow from its bow and aimed steadily at the same hunter. Fuku wanted so badly to call out to the hunters, but she didn’t allow herself to, and before the next arrow could hit, the six of them had already started to run out of the woods, screaming and cussing and hollering.

Ghost!! They quickly told the villagers, running around like mad. The hunter whose shoulder had been pierced barely even paid it any mind, too thankful he was alive, and too frightened, to do so. It’s an awful, evil, vengeful ghost in the woods of the mountain... it’s going to kill anybody who enters them! Once is a coincidence, twice is revenge, but three times…. It’s evil! It’s an evil spirit that won’t rest until every one of our villagers is dead!!

In those very woods of the mountain, Fuku was still standing behind the tree, hands over her mouth, doing everything in her power not to scream as she watched the ghost emerge from behind the tree. She found it horrifying– its skin was a sickly, corpse-ish grey with tinges of purple, and it had long, wavy, unkempt black hair, which it tossed over its shoulders with its hand as it strode forth, picking up the prey the hunters had dropped. It wore a flowing, tattered white kimono, burial clothes. Moving more quickly, it waded into the river, grabbing an object… Genjirou!!

In the heat of the moment, Fuku had totally forgotten the entire reason she’d come up the mountain in the first place! She wanted to cover her eyes, terrified to watch the surely gruesome scene that was sure to come unfold, but couldn’t, hands glued to her mouth and eyes to the ghost. To her surprise, no gruesome scene came– the ghost carefully lay Genjirou upon the ground, pressing firmly on his chest. Genjirou sputtered water. Water, water, and more water… he would have surely drowned if the ghost hadn’t pulled him out.

The ghost disappeared for a minute and Fuku’s heart dropped, certain it had sensed her and was going to kill her. Maybe Genjirou was controlling this cruel mountain spirit? No… she immediately shook the thought out of her head. She was bitter over her cousin dying, certainly, but she wouldn’t so quickly assign blame now that she had no proof. Besides, this was the man who she still secretly loved… she knew him, to an extent, and she knew he was a very simple person, absolutely incapable of something as sinister as the dark arts. Revenge on the hunters for talking badly about him was so silly, anyways. She felt embarrassed for having taken part in his ostracisation, knowing that more than anything, he needed at least a friend, if not a romantic partner.

She reminded herself to be more friendly to him.

When the ghost returned, she’d expected it to come maybe with a knife, or a sword, wanting to kill Genjirou personally and watch the life drain out of his eyes… but all it returned with was a handful of chrysanthemums. It shyly placed one in his hair, and then one on his chest, scattering the rest around his body as it played with his hair, running the long black strands through its scraggly, ashen fingers. Fuku couldn’t believe her eyes.

A short while later, Genjirou’s brow furrowed and he coughed. As quickly as it had come, the ghost ran away, leaving Genjirou alone. Determining the scene was safe, Fuku ran out from behind her cover to Genjirou’s side, placing a hand on his cheek. He grabbed the hand and flared his nostrils, recognising her by the scent of lilies. “Fuku?” he mumbled, managing to pry his eyes open. “Yes, Genjirou!” Fuku breathed, beaming. “Are you alright? You almost drowned…”

Genjirou promptly sat up, wide-eyed. “The hunters! I… I saw them earlier; it’s why I…. oh, it’s a long story. Are they alright? The ghost didn’t come again, did it?”

In her gut, Fuku felt even worse for doubting Genjirou. He was stand-offish, but not a selfish person, & even after nearly dying himself, was more worried about what became of the hunters. She couldn’t help but to nervously laugh. “The hunters are alright… Genjirou, I– I’m really sorry about how the villagers have been treating you, including me. I’ll be honest, I came up here because I saw you leaving to hunt, and wanted to see if I had any basis for my suspicions… I didn’t.” She stood up, and bowed deeply. “I’m very sorry.”

Genjirou wanted to stand, as well, but didn’t have the strength to. “It’s alright; I’m sorry, too…” He also laughed a bit. “I really am too stand-offish, to be honest, I’m not good at socialising at all!” Fuku elegantly sunk to her knees again. From the crisp condition of her kimono, you would never have guessed she’d been running around in the woods. “Then let’s be friends!” she suddenly declared, holding a hand to her chest. “I saw everything… the ghost, it did appear, but… it missed; it only shot one of their shoulders.”

“That’s very good… say, Fuku. May I ask two questions?”

Fuku nodded.

“One–” Genjirou picked up a chrysanthemum, spinning it between his fingers. “Are you the one who’s been leaving these flowers at my doorstep the past few days?” Fuku bit her lip. She knew none of the women in the village grew or sold white chrysanthemums; in fact, up until that day, she had never seen anybody who had them. She hated lying, but this was too good a moment to let pass. “Yes, I am,” she said shyly.

“Two, are you the one who saved me from the river?” Fuku prayed internally the ghost wouldn’t come to her house personally and beat her upside the head. Please forgive me, ghost, but this is the man I really love!! She couldn’t even verbalise the lie, this time just nodding, blushing more. Genjirou thought it was because she was shy, but really, it was because she couldn’t stand to lie! Genjirou smiled, gently touching her hand. She allowed him to hold it. “Then may I ask you a third question, Fuku?” She nodded again.

“May I kiss you?”

Wide-eyed and blushing profusely, she turned to him. She’d been waiting to hear that question her whole twenty years of life! “Yes! You may!” Genjirou delicately pinned her to the ground, his wet, but soft, long hair falling over her kimono as he kissed her, placing a hand tenderly behind her neck. Fuku blushed even more profusely, hugging him. She wanted to kiss him forever and ever, but she eventually let go, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear and looking up at him in awe and disbelief.

“You’re wonderful!” she felt awkward as she blurted this, and immediately put a hand over her mouth. “Have you ever had a girlfriend before?”

It was a silly question, for she’d known him his entire life, but still felt the need to ask to be sure. “I haven’t,” Genjirou affirmed her knowledge, and she embraced him again. “Could I be yours?” she asked suddenly, letting the heat of the moment spur her on. “You may!”

She kissed Genjirou again, and the two walked down the mountain to the village. Fuku braced herself, anticipating all the while that an arrow would be lodged into her back, but no such thing came, and she let herself relax as the couple strode into the village safely. “Genjirou is innocent!” she declared, attracting the attention of some people sitting outside. “He is innocent, and he is mine! The ghost haunting the woods is beyond any of our control, & is ungrateful for the beautiful burial Genjirou gave him!”

She needed to say no more. Faithful to their tradition, the people of Passions spread the news around like wildfire, and within that single day, Genjirou’s reputation was restored & renewed, & he was even met with praise, for pairing with such a fine woman as Fuku. That evening, after the village dinner, they were wished well as they went arm-in-arm to Genjirou’s house, where they engaged in passionate affairs until they fell asleep, content in one another’s embrace. While Genjirou slept peacefully and deeply, his troubles seemingly behind him, Fuku slept lightly, certain she heard a weeping outside, but not daring to look.

She took care to rise much earlier than Genjirou– at four in the morning, she crept outside, and found outside his door a bouquet of fresh white chrysanthemums, tied tightly by a silk ribbon. She snuck to a farmer’s house and discarded the flowers in a pig pen, a pang of guilt coursing through her as she did so. She shook the feeling off. What business would a ghost have with a human? It would be better for the both of them if he just passed peacefully and left him alone!

Still, as the weeks went on, her guilt only grew stronger every time she had to throw away the chrysanthemums, or pretend she’d gotten them for him, making up some tale about someone from another village who grew them just for her. One day, she couldn’t stand it anymore, and while Genjirou slept, she snuck into the mountains, surrounding herself with the most positive energy possible, hoping she wouldn’t be torn into shreds by the ghost. She hadn’t dared bring a hunter with her as the ghost seemed to carry a special vengeance for them, but as she ventured further and further, she felt dumber and dumber she hadn’t even brought some sort of a spiritual weapon.

“Ghost?” she called out, clinging onto a chrysanthemum she’d brought with her as she stood by the side of the river. Her face was painted ghost-white with crimson red eyeshadow and lipstick, and she wore her finest clothes, hoping that by putting such extra care into her appearance, she did not insult him by appearing in any way unsightly. One could mistake her for a geisha, but that she was most definitely not.

“Misses… or, erm, Mister… Ghost?” she called again, fidgeting with the chrysanthemum, pulling on a petal. She froze as she felt a firm hand over hers just as she was about to pull. “Mister Ghost,” said a voice that was too pleasant to be able to belong to that terrifying being she’d seen in the woods, and Fuku yelped, staggering forward a bit, almost falling face-first into the river. The ghost grabbed her and steadied her, and she slowly turned to face him, doe-brown eyes locking with his, bloodshot and ebony. Up-close, he was almost handsome, but the fear factor still won out in her mind, not allowing her to appreciate any aestheticism. “Have you come to return these to me?” he murmured, gently taking the chrysanthemum from her.

“Are you the one who has been leaving them at Genjirou’s doorstep?” she asked, her voice wavering even as she tried to make it as firm as possible. “I am,” the ghost admitted, staring at it distantly. “Do they smell good?” Fuku gathered all her resolve and nodded. “They’re very nice… where do you find white chrysanthemums?”

“I used to grow them,” he sighed, handing the flower back to Fuku. “I thought ghosts couldn’t touch things,” she suddenly blurted, then immediately felt embarrassed. Her fear made her speak her thoughts out loud. The ghost laughed a bit. “I can if I want to, just like I can make myself seen if I want to. As for the white chrysanthemums– I grow them in a village on the other side of the mountain, where the weather’s much better for them.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve been throwing them away,” Fuku almost whispered, pulling at the petals again. “I came here to tell you that… I won’t say I’m sorry because it won’t do anything; I have been acting out of selfish desire & will accept it if you kill me like you killed those hunters if it will let you rest in peace.” She kneeled, head lowered. Fuku was very spiritual, and believed, more than anything, in the importance of a peaceful death, & felt she had disrupted this somehow.

The ghost’s expression suddenly darkened. “Get up,” he said in a voice so commanding Fuku didn’t dare object, shakily getting back up on her feet. In the background, leaves gently fell from the looming trees of the dark woods. His hair, ivory black and long, shone slightly in the moonlight, & his white burial clothes, for as dirty as they were, had an eerie glow to them. The odd, off-putting kindness from before had somewhat dissipated, and Fuku was met with a slap across the face– it wasn’t hard enough to be disrespectful, or hateful, but it was firm enough to sting slightly, and cause her to pay very close attention. “Genjirou loves you, doesn’t he?” the ghost asked coldly, glaring down at her. Fuku pondered this, then felt silly for doing so, & nodded. “I think he does, yes.”

“Then how dare you offer your life so lightly!” the ghost wailed, and Fuku noticed he was sobbing, odd, white streams of a heavy gaseous substance oozing from his eyes. “How miserable would Genjirou be not to be loved? You must cherish him more deeply! You must think more heavily before making such rash decisions! To be in love with him, you must tie your heart to his with an iron chain that will cause both to burst if it is severed! Do you understand?”

Fuku seldom considered the somewhat taboo fact that men could fall in love with other men, but she considered it deeply as the ghost spoke to her. It suddenly struck her that the chrysanthemums likely symbolised more than respect or an innocent friendship, and her face flushed a bit, hidden under the heavy makeup. She hadn’t known she’d acted so rashly she’d snatched away another person’s love, even if he was a ghost! “I understand,” she breathed, aghast.

“Then return to him– love him like no other, and remind him of how much he means to you every day… spoil him not with gifts, but with words, and raise his self esteem, so that your relationship may be meaningful like no other! Kiss him every day and linger so that he knows you do not wish to part ways, and hold his hand so that he knows he is not alone… drown him in sweet nothings that grow to be somethings, so that in old age he can look back on all these moments and say, I was a loved man!”

The guilt Fuku felt was so great she almost wished the ghost had just killed her the second he saw her, but she took his words to heart, just nodding along, still holding the chrysanthemum. She wondered why a ghost was so attached to Genjirou…. had they known one another in a different life? No, it couldn’t be; she would have surely seen him. Everybody knew everybody in Passions. Still, she ventured to ask, “Before I leave, Mister Ghost… may I ask your name?”

The ghost hesitated, before he answered, “Chikayoshi, although that name has not been spoken in years.”

She had no desire to ask how he died, nor why he killed the hunters, deciding she’d probably done enough damage, and that she should definitely head back. As she turned around to leave, the ghost implored of her one final thing, “Please do not mention this name to Genjirou… he will be tortured, & I could never forgive myself.”

She said nothing, unable to lie and say she wouldn’t, & quietly left, ultimately leaving the chrysanthemum with Chikayoshi. She couldn’t put the thought out of her mind– she never quite understood the concept of a man falling for another man, but if it were indeed true that this happened… oh, how cruel she was, how heartless she’d been, throwing away all those chrysanthemums & taking credit for the rescue, forcing Chikayoshi to watch as she did just that! She had never ventured before to think it was anything like that! She slid back into bed– it was only four in the morning, but she couldn’t sleep, haunted, quite literally, by Chikayoshi’s words & the expression he’d made when she offered herself to him.

Chikayoshi. Chikayoshi. She held onto the name like a prayer, determined not to forget it. After Genjirou woke up, things proceeded like normal– she was met with an array of kisses, the two went out to get breakfast, then lazily hung around the village. Nobody dared go into the woods for the time being, and the village leader was making arrangements with a self-proclaimed “expert of spirits and the supernatural” from another village to get rid of the ghost. Of course, this news spread around town like a wildfire, and the second it hit the couple, Fuku absolutely had to ask.

“Genjirou,” she whispered, as the two flipped lazily through texts in the library. “Could we go home? There’s something I really want to tell you.”

Genjirou raised a brow but put up no objection, and the two returned to his house. “Have you ever had any friends I haven’t known about?” she asked, biting her lip. She didn’t dare to ask boyfriend, the word not seeming right on her tongue, let alone seeming terribly informal. “Not that I can think of, no,” he replied earnestly, pouring himself a cup of tea from what remained in the teapot from that morning, placing a cup in front of Fuku as well. She ignored it, shifting uncomfortably on the mat. “Do you know the name Chikayoshi?”

Genjirou nearly spat out his tea, his eyes turning a terrible dark Kufu had never seen before. She immediately regretted the question, but it was too late now. “Why do you know this name?” His voice was calm, but some deep-rooted emotion was masked behind it, threatening to come out like a storm from a drizzle.

“It’s…..” she whispered, staring blankly down at her tea. “I– please promise you won’t be mad when I say this, Genjirou…” She also regretted saying this, knowing it was an infamously useless phrase. Genjirou only nodded. If he was going to get mad, he would get mad. She was prepared to handle the consequences. “I… I wasn’t the one who rescued you from the river, and I’m not the one who’s been leaving you chrysanthemums… that was Chikayoshi.”

“He’s back?!” Genjirou exclaimed, something wild about his expression. Fuku shook her head. “No, that’s – he's... the ghost on the mountain. Please don’t take this the wrong way, or think that our relationship is built on a lie, but I only took the credit because I thought it would be better for the dead not to interfere with the living…. I didn’t want to shock you.” And I was being selfish, she thought but did not say, leaving Genjirou to make that determination. There was a terrible period of silence, and when Fuku dared look up, she saw that Genjirou was sobbing silently, streams of tears pouring from his eyes as he wrung his hands aggressively, knuckles turning white from the pressure.

With a long sigh, he responded, “I haven’t taken it the wrong way, and I appreciate the sentiment…” He seemed to be mulling over his words, choosing each one very deliberately. “I don’t think you’re a liar, Fuku.” His eyes were filled with an indescribable sort of sadness, as he looked over at the vase of chrysanthemums. They were old, as Fuku had thrown away the ones from the past few days, and their petals fell to the surface of the dresser. “I have… I had… a friend you didn’t know about.”

THREE YEARS EARLIER

Chikayoshi struggled to catch his breath as he and Genjirou rolled and rolled and rolled in their special corner of the mountain, the exact center of the walking distance from the village of Passions to the village of Water’s Blessings. Genjirou placed kisses up and down Chikayoshi’s torso, who in return curled his toes in pleasure, wrapping his legs around the other’s hips. The two had met a year earlier during a hunt, or, in Chikayoshi’s case, a scouring-of-the-mountainside for flowers. They’d hit it off and become wonderful friends, only realising it was something more when Chikayoshi had sprained his ankle while Genjirou chased him. Once Genjirou caught up to him, he carefully tended to the wound, kissing it jokingly afterwards. When smiling at Chikayoshi, he was met by a cold, terrified gaze, & recognised it as longing. Daring himself, he moved his face closer– & closer– until he was finally met by a trepid, evolving into passionate, kiss, and the two realised their friendship was no more.

They made careful sure to not be seen by anyone else– Chikayoshi’s parents wanted so badly for their son to have a loving wife and have children, and Genjirou’s village wasn’t known as the most tolerant, infamously once having had kicked out an esteemed samurai after he flirted brashly with a male shopkeeper. Just as Chikayoshi was halfway through undoing Genjirou’s robes and the two felt daring enough to take the next “step” in their relationship, they froze as they heard the crackling of branches not too far away. Chikayoshi rapidly withdrew and Genjirou pretended to be busy with some mushroom, but it was too late; the two had been spotted by a hunter from Genjirou’s village who’d ventured further into the woods than his peers, and was met with quite the shock as he saw one of his fellow hunters arms-up with a strange man in the woods. Convinced his friend was of the female persuasion and that this was an assailant, he swooped in, throwing Genjirou as far as he could, sending him tumbling down a bit before he landed against a tree, and passed out immediately from the blunt trauma.

Unbeknownst to him, the other hunter had already drawn his bow and arrow, but too late– Chikayoshi took off like a mad dog into the woods, and the hunter chased after him, calling to his peers to help. They searched, and searched, and searched, all convinced Genjirou had been violated and that this man must die, but could not find him anywhere.

Just as how in the future, Genjirou hid from those very hunters in a river, Chikayoshi hid as well, but waded too deep into the water, and, unequipped with the ability of swimming, drowned. His corpse resurfaced soon enough that the hunters found it, and they buried it gracelessly in a ditch, leaving it to rot.

Chikayoshi’s body did rot, and his bones were taken away by wild animals. His spirit was very weak, and it took him three years of constant wishes for vengeance to manifest in a way that he could take on a physical form. He immediately sought out Genjirou, and also, his revenge, stealing a random corpse and marking it as his own– however, he was not at all well-written, & did not realise he had misspelled his name.

In the meantime in those three years, Genjirou distanced himself from his peers. The hunters agreed not to speak of what had happened to him in the mountains, finding it too shameful, and Genjirou could not stand to hunt alongside them anymore, choosing to hunt alone, hoping all along he’d encounter Chikayoshi, though he never did, & drearily presumed he’d been chased away by the others. The villagers started to grow cold towards Genjirou as they realised that he less and less interacted with them, let alone the fact that he so arrogantly hunted by himself– at least, they found it arrogant, as they did not know the true reason the hunters left him alone.

PRESENT

Fuku pursed her lips as Genjirou had only told her what he knew, personally– that he & Chikayoshi had once been involved in an affair, only to never see one another again after the incident on the mountain. Neither of the two had a clue as to how he’d died, but they didn’t want to think about it, knowing deep in their hearts it had to do with the hunters. “You must think I’m very silly,” she finally sighed, slightly laughing. “That I would so persistently chase after you even when your heart belonged to somebody else…” she blushed a bit. “I really do feel very foolish.”

“Don’t feel foolish,” Genjirou said pointedly, holding her hand in his. “Women should never feel foolish for trying to make their feelings known to a man… it shouldn’t be something to be embarrassed about, & I do appreciate you wholeheartedly for your support.” Fuku’s gaze was a bit empty, & that word was written across her brow: FOOLISH. “Please don’t think I’ve used you in any way,” he added, tightening his grip slightly. “You were not just a body for me to cling to, a soul for me to pour all that missing love into. Your friendship was always meaningful to me, and I always appreciated your reaching out to me where others wouldn’t, and our relationship was wonderful. You’re an amazing person, Fuku, and I wish nothing but the best for you.”

Fuku’s grip tightened in his. “We’re over, aren’t we?” she whispered. She had a gut feeling, even before she knew exactly how close Chikayoshi had been to Genjirou– she had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to love her anymore, knowing what he did. “Please don’t find me superficial,” Genjirou pleaded, searching her eyes. Fuku smiled wryly, reading his every facial feature. “I don’t,” she responded quietly. “I think in another life we would have paired quite nicely.”

“I think so, too,” Genjirou whispered, then stood up, taking the tea cups. He disappeared that same day, not offering Fuku a good-bye, as he knew it needed not be said. He did leave Fuku his house and possessions, and with that, she knew he would never return. She wished to have a love so powerful it could bring her back to life… she eventually got her wish, as, a couple years later, she met a beautiful, kind man from another village, who showered her every day in his affections and never failed to remind her how much she meant to him, even in the hard times, or when they argued. They never fought, making them a couple rather envied by a large sum of the villagers, who couldn’t seem to go a few days without fighting with their spouse.

The two married, and after their marriage, Fuku found a magnificent bouquet of chrysanthemums by her doorstep, wrapped in a silk ribbon….

#historical #ghosts #romance #fantasy #Japanese #shortstory #chrysanthemums #genjirou #chikayoshi

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janvangouden · 4 years ago

Text

THE LEGENDARY SAMURAI, KOBAYASHI

a samurai wishes to be legendary, unaware of the consequences his desire may bring. about 20 pages in normal format. written by jan van gouden.

The sorcerer Harvester seemed fated to unusual circumstances– the offspring of a demoness and a ghost, he was born with many hands, which he attempted to conceal under even more layers of clothes. The demoness and the ghost could not care for him, so they placed him in the care of the ghost’s sister, who was still alive and ecstatic to have received this sign from her dearly departed brother.

The ghost’s sister was an elderly woman at this time. Although she fought for the first fifteen or so years of the boy’s life to place him in a good school and to provide him with a good home, she could not fight Death. Death came to her in the form of a heart attack one sunny Sunday morning, leaving poor Many-Hands all alone.

Without her fiery defense and adamant inquiries to teachers as to his well-being, Many-Hands faced hard times in his school. Now, not so much worrying about teachers’ scolding, he was bullied for his appearance and his meek personality, which did not at all help him. He found himself truly alone… one night, as he cried himself to sleep, he heard a knocking at the door of the house which had been left to him. Unbeknownst to him, it was his original parents– at the doorstep, he found a book of sorcery, and a note claiming it was a gift, for his protection.

The demoness hoped to see Many-Hands become a cunning, powerful sorcerer, as she once had been, but he did not meet her expectations… He only wished to use these newfound powers for good, and attempted nobly to make peace with his classmates, desperately offering them his powers in their favour, wanting, or maybe thinking he needed, to grant them wishes.

This plan backfired– a classmate who wished for fame got it, and was so overwhelmed and hated for it that it drove him to his grave within months. Another classmate wished for wealth but to attain it, his parents shot one another, and he was orphaned, left with their inheritance. It seemed no matter how badly Many-Hands wanted the wishes to go well, they only ended very badly, unless they were quite simple!

However, this was enough to catch the attention of the village elders. Claiming he only brought shame upon the spirit of their dearly deceased friend who had been kind enough to raise him, they chased Many-Hands out with scorn, daring him to ever try to return. Of course he put up no fight, and left, like the dog whimpering with its tail between its legs.

Into his adulthood, Many-Hands wandered, a drifter, & tread, heavy-footed and dejected, out of nearly every village he hoped to find a home in. He was out every time for either his many hands, labeling him as a monster, or his magic, labeling him a wicked witch.

Hated, feared, and rejected, life weighed heavy on Many-Hands like iron chains. His parents wanted so badly to reach out and comfort him, but they also wanted, more-so, for him to be able to live a good life. They knew it would only get worse if people knew his mother was a demoness and his father, a ghost!

Emotionally burdened, Many-Hands grew weak physically and mentally, and when Winter came around again with her icy laugh and her cold snow, he decided he could brave her no more. He fell at some point, & did not get up, having neither the physical strength nor the mental will to do so. As frostbite nibbled at his toes and snow coated his lashes, his father braced himself, ready to welcome him into the spirit world.

This ghostly embrace never came to be, as a pair of blistered, but firm, hands wrapped around either of his shoulders and dragged him out of the little ditch that had formed around him. From the man’s kabuto and karuta, he could be immediately identified as a samurai, perhaps back from training or battle. After Many-Hands was hoisted from the snow, two others joined in lifting him from the ground as though he were a delicate flower, perhaps mistaking him for a woman under his heavy makeup and ornate clothing. “A pool of crimson blood of resting upon silver snow,” one commented, referring to the striking red hair belonging to the sorcerer, tied into two twin-knots atop his head, embellished with golden hairpins. One might have pegged him as a member of the upper class, but he wore only what little possessions he had saved from the woman who raised him.

Many-Hands awoke to find himself not dead, but quite alive, warmed by the gently flickering flame of a fire in what seemed to be a peasant’s hut, unassuming and of simple wood, but so familiar and homely. The moment he fully regained consciousness, his eyes flew open, startlingly yellow, & he looked around in a frenzy, his entire body relaxing when his gaze rested upon the book of sorcery, seated neatly atop a pile of manuscripts near the fireplace. He got up, and stretched, and his motion alerted the person standing outside, who rushed in and urged him to sit again, feverishly checking his forehead and feet.

With a sense of nervous relief, she laughed, seating herself by him on the bed. “We were worried you would never wake up, traveler. Do you know your name?”

“I have never been officially granted a name, as there never was one anyone deemed to fit me, but I am called Many-Hands.”

“I’m unsurprised. You do indeed have many hands– I’ve seen people with additional hands, even heads, before in my lifetime, but never before have I seen somebody with many hands. Perhaps they helped to keep you warm.”

“What is your name?”

“I am the onna-bugeisha Misaki of the proud Samurai village Persistent Strength, which is where you are now… my brothers and I found you by the edge of the woods, or on the edge of death. I hope you are not offended that we have saved you.”

“Not at all,” Many-Hands asserted, suddenly overcome with glee– perhaps this samurai village could be his home, & he at last would no longer have to drift in a murk, leaving himself to the mercy of mother nature and her elements, which could be so cruel. Immediately, without even thinking of his words, he offered, “May I grant you a wish? As you may have noticed from my text, I am a sorcerer, and I am duty-bound to bring joy and pleasure to those who turn to me a kind hand.” And those who turn to me a cruel hand, he thought bitterly, wondering if in the past his kindness had been wasted.

Before Misaki could speak, he put a hand over his mouth and a hand up to her, prompting her silence, as he deliberated. “However… please be aware, that I can only grant one wish annually…” I do not wish to be used for only wishes; I want to be appreciated for more than this lousy magic! “...and your wish cannot be extreme, or else it will have dire consequences… if you wish for wealth, you may as well wish for death, and if you wish for love, you may as well wish for hatred. I can only grant simple wishes, and I am only a very simple sorcerer.” A lie, for his convenience and hers– Many-Hands was indeed quite capable in the world of sorcery, but he did not wish for power, so he chose to ignore the vast majority of his capabilities, in favour of living a “normal” life.

Somewhere in the other world, his demoness mother tore out her hair at the knowledge he could have Japan in his pocket if he so desired!

Misaki laughed a bit, but not at all in a condescending manner. “A simple person such as myself has no extreme wishes, I don’t think… fine. I will test your magic, sorcerer. I wish for… a kitten. I would love to have a kitten to nurture as my own.”

And lo, the next day, an ambling stray kitten stumbled into Misaki’s home, and spun around her, greeted immediately with affection. Misaki rushed, with the cat, to the hut in which Many-Hands recovered, laughing. “How wonderful, this power of yours… I cannot think of anything better I could have exhausted my annual wish on, as I can care for this cat all its life!” She placed a tender kiss upon the creature’s head, then extended it for Many-Hands to pet, who politely declined, afraid he would kill it with his touch. “What can I do to thank you?” she proclaimed, seeming to forget that it was his gesture of thanks to begin with. Still, he responded to her, after taking a long sip from the tea that had been graciously brought to him earlier.

“You may tell your brothers, and every other member of this fine village, that they may come to me with a wish… please take care to outline to them the conditions of these wishes, as I do not want anything harmful to come their way.” Many-Hands bit his lip and Misaki knew she needed to ask no more, his worrisome expression telling his story much more quickly and effectively than words could ever hope to achieve.

“I will tell them,” she said enthusiastically, seemingly convinced of his magic simply by the coming of the stray– but Many-Hands could tell from the fine lines of wisdom and hardship etched into her face, in spite of her age, that she was far more intelligent than that, and likely saw this as a win-none lose-none situation, in that even if not a single wish beyond hers was granted, it would do no harm, and the village might chalk him up to be a harmless madman. When she left, Many-Hands carefully read the section of his book from which he had learned his spells, wanting to make certain he did not commit a single error!

The conditions he had outlined to Misaki seemed general enough to understand, and specific enough to follow the text. Assured in his talent, he closed the book, and merely an hour or two later, Misaki came again, ushering him out onto a seat outside. Many-Hands squinted at the bright white of the sun against the snow, and realised suddenly he wore neither his usual array of robes nor his makeup, and felt quite embarrassed, but was relieved at least his many hands covered by the thick coat he’d been provided.

Ahead of him stood rows upon rows of people, enough to make anyone with even a little bit of stage fright pass out! He swallowed a lump in his throat, looking out at them… old faces hardened by war and hardship, young faces painted with pride and strength, and so many more. The village boasted at least three hundred some people, and surely, every one of those people had some wish they desired!

Some tried to “repeat,” but Many-Hands recognised faces well and shooed them away with a smile. By the evening, he had at last heard every wish, and his throat was sore, but the villagers seemed in good spirits, an older fellow inviting him & some friends to his home, where he promised he would make the finest roast he ever had, for he’d wished his pig that night to be the sweetest & juiciest he’d had in his life! The offer was met by a round of giggles, as the villagers likely thought the man had poked fun at Many-Hands with his wish, and wished to embarrass him. “Farmer Muzuki’s pigs are always tough, dry, and sour,” one villager whispered, affirming the aforementioned. Many-Hands had indeed noticed– while some of the villagers indeed asked in earnest (mostly humble wishes, overwhelmingly asking for profound strength, honour, and courage in battle), some “wishes” had clearly been made in jest. “If the pig tonight is indeed delicious, I might even believe in the magic of this sorcerer!”

Many-Hands got to witness the fellow’s face pale in front of his friends, as he bit into the expectedly bitter roast and was met with a juicy, sweet flavour and texture… his ears reddened with embarrassment as his friends laughed, but he held no resentment, laughing with them and patting Many-Hands on the shoulder. “I must say, odd fellow… this pig is exceptional. I’m not as spiritual as some of my friends, and do not believe in magic… however, I may call you a token of luck; it seems good things have been happening ever since you stepped foot into this village!” Sheepishly, he added, “I might have asked for sweet pig every night I have it for the rest of this year, but I didn’t think to...”

A week passed, and Many-Hands was able to walk on his own again, the frostbite no more than a slight tingling sensation on his feet. Luckily, it had not been so severe that anything had to be cut off, so he could still wear his favourite sandals, and his many heavy robes. A teenage samurai-in-training and scheming businessman (two in one) came running into the village at full speed at Many-Hands, and almost knocked him down. He smiled and composed himself, bowing to the sorcerer in gratitude. “Sorcerer, I want to thank you for your wish… I don’t know if you remember, but last week, I wished for my writing to finally start to sell, and this week alone, I have sold so many copies of my book, that my father finally agreed to buy woodblock supplies…” He ran away again, and Many-Hands beamed.

It seemed at last luck had caught up to him, and that his caution in granting wishes seemed so far to prosper. Not all wishes could be granted immediately, as some wishes necessitated a span of time to pass, such as wishes of a good harvest, successful battle, and so on, but it seemed those that were immediately passed so far with great success, & that the villagers smiled upon him.

Two years ambled by, seeming to the younger samurai like old men they were stuck behind, having to slow their pace to walk with them, and to the older denizens of the village like leaping tigers, sprinting by so quickly they could not fully capture the grace of their every movement. Both years saw great prosperity, as both years the denizens of Persistent Strength, at least those who initially had made serious wishes, wished for the same thing. Come the spring, those whose passion lie with farming and gardening, who had wished for flourishing crops, got their wishes granted; magnificent flowers and pearlescent cherry blossoms swayed in the wind, and fresh pink apples fell from trees like babies from a crane’s bill.

In every battle the samurai of the village had to face, they prospered and defeated their enemies so easily it became a bit of gossip. Persistent Strength’s name had already been one imbued with the admiration of other villages & even rival warriors, but now that admiration only steeply rose, as the samurai seemed more strong and skilled than ever!

Persistent Strength’s name came to be heard even by the Feudal Lord Yutana, who reigned over a considerably large territory of Japan. The samurai of Persistent Strength owed their loyalty to the Feudal Lord Subarashii, who Yutana had always kept a close eye on. Subarashii’s samurai typically were decent warriors, enough to pose a threat if need be, so their victory in battle was no surprise, but with such ease, such effortlessness… Unlike the man with the sour pigs years before, Yutana believed in the supernatural, be it spirits, demons, dark arts, or anything of the type, and with Persistent Strength’s sudden claim to fame, he could only fathom to pin the blame on one thing: magic!

Yutana had several elite samurai in his ranks, but amongst them there was one who he trusted like no other: the great samurai Kobayashi, always eager to please, and a childhood friend of the Feudal Lord’s, no less. Yutana knew his willingness to please was an asset rather than a burden, for if there was a suggestion given of something that may please the Feudal Lord, Kobayashi would chase after it like a feral dog. His only needed incentives were approval, and being seen as great! Indeed… the samurai Kobayashi, in his life, only had ever wanted to be great, to strike awe and admiration within the hearts of all those who laid eyes upon him, even if they did not know him at all.

When Yutana asked Kobayashi to go undercover into the village of Persistent Strength as an ordinary Samurai belonging to the ranks of a warlord friendly with Subarashii– in this case, Tanaka– Kobayashi gladly consented and immediately went underway, only hoping that he would not encounter Tanaka’s actual samurai in his travels. This would not be a problem for him, or so he was self-assured… he only wanted not to cause any unnecessary bloodshed, as he was certain he could defeat an entire group of warriors! Perhaps not an entire army… he buried any worry in the back of his mind. Whatever. It’s unlikely an entire army would be out on a march, anyways… right? To be certain, he was unfamiliar with the practices of samurai outside the ranks of Yutana, & suddenly was riddled with an uneasy dread, fearing the samurai of Persistent Strength may recognise his mannerisms were not as those of a Tanaka samurai.

As Kobayashi wandered, he felt his arrogance dwindling, so much so that when a random group of samurai walked in the distance from where he tread, he stifled a yelp and hid behind a bush, sighing in relief as they passed, then carrying on. He dared not remove his armour and helmet, too proud in his show of strength to display weakness by carrying it in his arms. However, he did eventually take off the helmet, as he washed the hair he had, secured in a top-knot, in a stream. More than his pride in his strength, Kobayashi took pride in his looks, and did not want to show up to the village disgracefully smelly and sweaty.

Without a drop of blood on him, to boot! Where was the “coolness” in that?!

It took three days to walk from the Feudal Lord Yutana’s territory to that of the Feudal Lord Subarashii, and by the edge of the territory, Kobayashi gave in and bought a horse, which he rode to his final destination– the village of Persistent Strength, buried deep in the woods. Outside the village, a guards-person questioned him, but without much suspicion, which eased Kobayashi’s spirits. “What is your name?”

“I am the samurai Kobayashi of the territory of the Lord Tanaka… not to impede, but I have been sent to observe whatever may be the secret behind your great success, so the Lord Tanaka may decide whether or not to talk over a potential alliance with the Lord Subarashii.” The guards-person peered at him in a suspicious way and the hairs on his neck stood up, only to subside when the other laughed. “I’m afraid our great secret is not so much a secret as a matter of great luck, but you are free to enter… perhaps if you encounter this “secret” you may get something sweet for yourself.”

Kobayashi passed him and furrowed his brow when he heard him laugh again, wondering why this “secret” seemed neither guarded nor treated with some higher level of respect. He inquired as to where the head of the village lived and he was guided to the retired samurai Heiwa, who pointed him in the direction of the local inn, co-owned by the now-renowned, albeit still teenaged, author whose wish for wood-block prints had been granted by Many-hands, now named Harvester. The name Harvester replaced that of Many-Hands as the villagers deemed it a better and more official name, and a symbol of sorts, symbolising the thanks the villagers had to him for granting them successful reapings, on land and in war.

“That’s a lot you charge,” he grumbled, forking over plentiful yen to the bright-faced boy, who stifled a smug grin as he pocketed it, never revealing the real sign behind the fake one he had put up. “I’m very young, and this is a fledgling business,” he said earnestly, presuming full ownership over the inn. “I need this money for the supplies for my books, which make me the money I need to live. Life is cruel, friend.” To his bad luck and dismay, his father had, unbeknownst to him, gotten back from the village he’d visited early, and greeted him, emerging from behind the finely painted curtains, with a twist to the ear. “Forgive my son, traveler; he is greedy, as any fine young man with the path of success set before him but his heart set in the wrong place. Please–” He took down the false sign, revealing one of significantly less value, causing Kobayashi to sigh in relief. He grabbed some money back and handed it to the other. “–enjoy your stay. It is an honour to have one of our fine neighbour samurai visiting us… are you alone?”

“I was sent solo by the Lord Tanaka to observe what the great samurai of this village may have been up to so as to ensure their great glory as of lately– even greater than usual, that is. It was offered to bring some help, but I felt that in friendly territory, this would not be necessary, & did not want to appear mistrustful or as a threat.”

“Not at all,” the inn-keeper said with a smile. “You are our guest… we may only be a village of samurai, but we are still dignified peoples, and pride ourselves on providing a comfortable home for those who are our allies.” He paused. “What is your name?”

“I am the samurai Kobayashi,” Kobayashi said humbly, with only a tinge of irritation in the back of his mind when he saw the inn-keeper did not react at all, as had not the guard. While it was, for now, for the best nobody knew who he was, he still wished that they did… he wished he were a legend amongst the denizens of Japan, his name known in every village! “Enjoy your stay; your room is upstairs, first door on the… left.” The inn-keeper bowed slightly to Kobayashi and Kobayashi returned the gesture, then headed to his room, well-tired after another long day of travel, and eager to rest.

The next day, after cleaning up and dressing down, Kobayashi ventured to ask the inn-keeper as to the root of the samurai’s success, and was pointed in the direction of the onna-bugeisha Misaki, Harvester’s closest friend. Misaki laughed at his inquiry. “Have you not heard? Our village owes its late prosperity to the great sorcerer Harvester, whose benevolence has brought us great joys. Would you like to meet him?”

Unlike his Lord, Kobayashi didn’t believe entirely in things beyond the physical realm of existence, and had doubts in his mind that this all was wrought by anything outside of dumb luck, or renewed extensive training. When he met Harvester, however, the latter’s appearance alone was almost enough to make him bite his lip– adorned in fine silks with the lustre of gold, emerald, orange topaz, and pearl, he was a sight to behold, face painted white like a ghost with stark red eyeshadow and yellow stripes running vertically through his eyes, meeting at the middle of the top of his forehead under thick bangs, which brushed off the sides into a brilliant sweep of scarlet-red hair, held up neatly in the front by kanzashi, and tied up into two distinctive, towering knots on either side. He wore large golden earrings and had notably long, sharp nails.

Kobayashi swore he saw two hands where there should not be any, but as soon as he blinked, they were gone, and he chalked it up to his imagination. Before he could even register a thought, he bowed deeply. Perhaps it was caused by the illustrious appearance of the so-called sorcerer, but he felt extremely humbled, like he was in the presence of someone of very high class. Little did he know Harvester was born from dirt; it was only thanks to the prosperity and gratitude of the villagers that he was able to dress so nicely. Harvester did not do so to inspire awe as he had in Kobayashi– he was only an appreciator of the arts, and took great pride in his personal appearance, swearing never again to be torn and bedraggled as once he had been.

These new clothes were representative of a new life, one where he at last was loved, and could feel normal, respected amongst his peers.

He returned a slighter bow with a coy smile, fanning his face. The fan was decorated with an intricate design of a red dragon, and did nothing to make Kobayashi feel less humility. “Good day, traveler,” he politely greeted, pouring a cup of tea for his unexpected guest, ever the courteous one. Kobayashi paled when he realised– one hand fanned his face, one hand held a book decorated with illustrations of birds, and one hand was pouring tea. Three hands! A fourth, as one came about to flip the page of the book.

The extensive garments had disguised this abnormality before. “Good day,” Kobayashi responded shakily, twiddling awkwardly with his own hands, not sure what to do. He had felt very headstrong heading into the village, so much so that if he had known of the sorcerer, he would have planned to kidnap him, but now, he just felt awkward, like an impish teenage boy rather than a thirty-something year old, distinguished samurai. “Please don’t pay too much mind to my hands– I have many hands, and not one of them would do harm. It is an unfortunate curse I have suffered from since birth, but I am slowly coming to peace with it.”

Kobayashi remained silent, letting Harvester do the talking. “You are the samurai Kobayashi of the territory of Tanaka, are you not? This visit was unexpected, but your presence is not unprecedented; the guard told me you would likely come to visit me at some point.”

“That is correct,” Kobayashi managed to stammer out, still taking in the details of Harvester’s regalia. Details, details. So many details they made his head spin, so he quit looking. “The Lord Tanaka wished to–”

“Again, your tale precedes you,” Harvester said with a light laugh, snapping. The humble table upon which his tea sat grew inexplicably in size, and as Kobayashi’s mind reeled for a rational explanation, he settled for the less-satisfying answer, witchcraft! Harvester nodded to the empty space across from him and dismissed Misaki, who nodded her head in return and left. “I have no interest in formalities– perhaps this is unbecoming of me to say, but I don’t like to bother with rituals and customs so much in the ways of pleasant conversation…. I am, of origin, a wanderer, and I’m afraid tradition eludes me.” He had a haunting, red-stained smile, which pierced his snow-white face.

“Well, that may make our conversation more pleasant,” Kobayashi half-laughed. “I am interested in the new strength of the samurai of this village, and at its core, I suppose, there is you… you are a sorcerer, or so I have been told?”

All of this felt very strange to Kobayashi… he had expected to have been told to buzz off, or to be distrusted severely by the villagers, not to be welcomed, let alone allowed to meet the very “source” of their power. Yes– everybody in the village seemed pleasant, to a bizarre degree, one he almost did not trust. Were Tanaka and Subarashii really so close that the territories held absolutely no distrust towards one another? Perhaps Yutana was only particularly territorial and untrusting, and that was why he had no “friends” among the feudal lords. Or maybe they were in a sort of “happy haze,” a high brought about by their easy lives in the past few years. Persistent Strength was never known to be a village with good farms or food, and yet, the villagers seemed now to eat like kings, with fat animals and plentiful harvests.

“I consider myself a humble servant of the people, if not a friend, but yes, I am a sorcerer…” Harvester put down his book of birds in favour of selecting, from a dusty pile behind him, an intricately bound black book that oozed an ominous aura, embroidered with gold decorations and symbols. “I was born with the capabilities of magic, thus the curse of my many hands, but I owe my actual abilities entirely to this book… it can be used for good or for bad, as it is, admittedly, born of dark magic, but I choose only to take that which is very good and expand upon it, to bring people pleasure in their lives.” He sighed, tracing the book’s cover with a lingering finger, placing his head upon another hand.

“Life should be beautiful, like a painting… with only watercolor lilies and ink-spot tigers, and perhaps some “evil” ghosts and spirits to fight along the way in the name of “good…” but in life there exists evil, actual evil, which weighs heavy upon and targets the souls of the good, sometimes enveloping them. I cannot do away with this evil, as I am afraid only fire can fight fire, and extinguishing one brand of evil will only beget another, however… I wish to bring whatever happiness I can to this often so thankless existence, and reward people for merely living out the gift of life, without regard to where I place them on my moral compass.” His smile briefly returned. “Should not everyone be offered a taste of a beautiful world, with lilac skies and rose clouds? I think it would be so beautiful, to live in a painting, free of the pains of this existence.”

He giggled a bit, fanning himself. “I’m terribly sorry; I don’t mean to monologue… I’m very wordy; you must interrupt me when I get like this.”

Kobayashi also laughed, more to be polite, shaking his head. “Your words elude me, but I could listen to them all day; they have a bit of a sense of poetry to them.” He almost forgot what he was going to ask. “I’m sorry to so abruptly change the subject but– as you know of my purpose already, I must ask you. What have you done to the samurai of this village to make them such fierce warriors in battle?”

“I have done nothing but let their words ring true; they brought their fates into this world by asking me for them… I answer to individual passions and interests, but not every samurai wishes to be a great warrior.” He giggled again, and fanned himself. Kobayashi wondered if he must get quite hot under all those clothes. “Of course, as you may have guessed given this is a samurai village, it is most of their desires… but some samurai wish for great harvests, or sweetmeats, or good health in their relationships.”

“So you grant wishes,” Kobayashi said simply, essentially repeating everything Harvester had said in four words.

“So I do. You’re lucky your lord sent you… you will be the first of the territory of Tanaka to be granted a wish by me!” With no further ado, Harvester asked, “What do you wish for?”

Kobayashi was a bit taken aback by the question and had to take a moment to ponder. He knew exactly what he wanted, but had read enough ghost stories and fairy tales to know to wish carefully. After a moment, he had his wish: “I wish to become a legendary samurai, who will be remembered for ages, in history and history to come!!” Harvester’s smile fell a bit and he bit his lip. “I’m afraid I cannot grant you this wish.”

“Why not?” Albeit he was disappointed, Kobayashi asked with genuine curiosity, rather than indignance or ingratitude.

“I apologise for not explaining this to you prior to my asking; I got a little caught up in my words… I have a few conditions for my wish. I cannot grant more than one wish annually, and I cannot grant extreme wishes, such as sudden wealth, or fame, or in your case, a legendary status. For me to do so would be to go against my own principle, and would result only in tragedy.”

“A tragedy?”

Harvester’s ochre eyes grew dim and sad, but before Kobayashi could take back his words and assure him there was no need to elaborate, Harvester was already speaking: “Years ago, when I was approximately… eighteen, still learning the nuances of my abilities, I sometimes was too eager to grant wishes, and was not sure of where the line lay, exactly, in that a wish was too powerful. I was a wanderer after having been kicked out of my first village for… tragedies that befell it…” Quickly and defensively, he asserted, “But I did not intend for tragedy to occur! I only wished to please those who at some point I must have displeased, but my pandering resulted in their downfall. Anyway– I traveled from village to village hoping to find a new home, and to try and be friendly, I would offer to grant wishes.

“In one village, I met a grief-stricken widow. Her husband had died a horrible death; he had died very young, poisoned by a “friend” of his who was jealous of his bride! I was sympathetic to her, and as she wept, she begged I bring him back to life. I had never before brought somebody back to life, so I was willing to try… I was too rash and caught up in emotion, not bothering to read the very fine print, and granted her wish, bringing her husband back to life.”

There was a long pause, in which Kobayashi felt obligated to ask, “Did he not come back to life?”

“No, no… he came back to life; my magic never fails. However, he came back as a vengeful, soulless body who sought to steal somebody else’s soul as his own… he found an easy target in his wife, who sobbed as she held him in her arms… he ate her body until there was nothing left but the soul–! After consuming the soul, he realised what he had done, and killed himself in the way of the honourable samurai… I was exiled immediately from the village. My path is not one that is free of blood, I am sorry to say. In another case, somebody wished for riches beyond imaginable belief, and they came to him… and as soon as they did, those who had once been his friends, ravaged by jealousy, tore him apart limb by limb, and took away all his riches! Rumours spread that I was an evil practitioner of the dark arts, and many villages exiled me before I could even step foot within them, afraid that with me I brought a terrible curse. And I did, in a way… I brought the curse of inexperience, but from these undesirable happenings, I learned, and shall never again try to stretch the unimaginable into the imaginable again. I can make sour pigs turn sweet. I can turn drooping marigolds into fresh ones. But I cannot turn wood into gold.”

Kobayashi frowned. “I’m very sorry to hear you had to learn in such a hard way.” He was reminded of his youth, when his father would have him kill wild animals to practice his kenjutsu on, to show him the consequences of what would happen if he did not swiftly kill. Even that seemed to pale in comparison with what Harvester told him, even more so because Harvester had not intended at all to kill anybody. To kill with no intent of doing so in your heart is to tie your soul to an anchor and cast it into sea.

“Don’t be sorry,” Harvester murmured, and Kobayashi noticed he was crying, trickles of water running down his porcelain face. He felt awkward again, wanting to further console the man, but chose not to, not wanting to offend his pride. “I do still want to grant you a wish, traveler Kobayashi… following my guidelines, can you think of another one? I don’t mean to be cumbersome.”

How much self loathing does this guy have?! Kobayashi thought to himself, realising that Harvester often referred to himself as a burden, or that he was wasting time, even if the samurai thought nothing of it. Again, he chose not to comment. “Well…” Amidst all that talk, he had definitely noticed a weak spot, and he chose to target it. “My wish is very simple, then, as I do not wish for power in battle, or luck with my crops… I shall wish to be your friend from here on, so that even if this village– forbid it ever happen– turns cold on you, you know you have at least one person to turn to.”

He had to stifle a gasp of surprise, but still flinched, as Harvester sprung with a speed he had not expected of him from his seat, embracing him fully in his many arms. “I don’t think I need to use any sorcery to achieve this,” Harvester cooed, holding Kobayashi tight to his chest. Kobayashi noticed he was quite tall, not so much towering over him, but still standing a bit higher than he did. He also noticed, however, that his sandals were platformed, and that it was more likely they were of the same, if not approximately same, height. As he had suspected, the sorcerer Harvester was not one of many friends, even with so many people who seemed to love him, and was eager like a dog to make any, let alone be so brashly asked to be one. He loosened his grip, hesitating, biting his lip again. “However, are you certain you want this to be your wish…? I warn you that, if you say it is, I will grant it to you, and you will not be able to make another for a year.”

“I am certain. I wish to be a friend to you, and to see you as a friend… I wish to be such dear friends that it would kill us if we parted ways,” Kobayashi reasserted, saying the last part half-jokingly, and again felt that bear-like embrace. Overcoming the slight awkwardness, it was actually quite nice, so wrapped up in the sorcerer’s arms… the fabric he wore felt as of high of a quality as it looked, soft and light, genuine silk with delicate embroideries and designs littered throughout, and his touch was warm, until the cold tips of his long fingernails. Kobayashi wondered where he’d gotten this from, as he had never seen anybody before with such long nails… then again, he had never seen anybody like Harvester regardless, aside from perhaps in the stray kabuki performance here & there.

“Then your wish is granted.” Harvester abruptly pulled back from Kobayashi and settled peacefully back into his seat, a content smile floating on his face. “I’m sorry if I intruded upon your personal space; it’s just….” He had gone back to his book of birds, but looked up, piercing yellow eyes meeting with Kobayashi’s brown ones. “...nobody has ever so explicitly declared a desire to be my friend before. It was very nice. I must thank you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Kobayashi said as politely as he could, stifling his excitement. As soon as Harvester redirected his attention to the book of birds, probably trying to play it cool, Kobayashi stared intently at the black and gold book he had replaced behind him, practically calling to him. Although Harvester was a sorcerer and had some grasp of magic since birth, Kobayashi recognised the book as one of the forbidden dark arts from the Feudal Lord Yutana’s descriptions, & knew… he knew, that if he played his cards right, there might be a chance to get his hands on it, & by extension, grant his own wish!

Harvester was a great sorcerer, he had decided to make up his mind, perhaps convinced outright by the trick with the table and his unconventional appearance, but he certainly, in Kobayashi’s humble opinion, had his shortcomings… it was likely his meek personality made his magic less powerful, which in result, made his more ambitious wish-granting blow up in his face, since he did not have a powerful enough spirit to make up for it.

In spite of Kobayashi’s selfish thoughts, he and Harvester grew quite close and Kobayashi even genuinely enjoyed the friendship they shared, finding the sorcerer more and more under-appreciated beyond his skills. They spun great tales to one another, and went hunting, Harvester more-so for temporary pets than anything to eat… every time, Kobayashi failed to actually kill any animals, as Harvester swooped in to the rescue, and found a way to make even the most warted toad an endearing little pet. The villagers were happy, Kobayashi was happy, Harvester was happy, & Misaki was happy. As much as she did care about Harvester, she still had her duties to tend to in the village and as an onna-bugeisha, and found some relief in not having to take time out of every day for the sorcerer.

She did not at all coddle or “mother” him, as she was not at all the type to take on a motherly role for anything outside of her kitten, who was now a cat, but as she explained to Kobayashi one evening while Harvester slept, “It’s because of his unsocial upbringing that he’s such a terribly lonely person… did he tell you, that in school, he did not have a single friend because he was seen as a monster? Even before the children turned bitter, they wanted nothing to do with him, only stayed pacific because the woman who took care of him was a respected village elder…” She went on about things that, yes, indeed, Harvester had already told Kobayashi about, but the samurai let her speak on regardless, too tired to even express disinterest. Misaki was highly energetic and the type who would be fine with only two hours of sleep in a night, immune to tiredness, quite the opposite of Harvester, who could sleep twelve hours a night and still feel tired come morning.

“...it’s just so wonderful that you’ve stepped in to be a friend to him; I believe the village has benefited from your presence.”

The presence would not last much longer– a month passed, and Kobayashi had to return to his Lord, who had granted him a month and a quarter for travel and visitation. He bid Harvester and the villagers a bittersweet farewell and swore to return, waving from the back of his horse as a good portion of the village waved in return, giving blessings for his safe arrival. Little did they know that rather than the Lord Tanaka, Kobayashi reported directly to the Lord Yutana, who listened intently as Kobayashi told his tale–

–not at all of sorcerers and wish-granting, but of rigorous training the samurai had to endure that molded them into peak physical condition, forms so gnarly, so beastly, that it was hard to tell once stripped of their armour that they were human at all! He told of training conditions so gruesome he never would have dreamed of them, and that he wished he would have gone as more than a traveler, so that he could train under them, with their brutal techniques, which were sure to whip him into tip-top shape!!

“And here I was certain it was witchcraft,” Yutana laughed. He was an intimidating figure beyond his title, burly, large, with a face littered with scars from past altercations he obviously had won, or else he would not be alive to chat with his most trusted samurai. “This training regimen sounds interesting… you tell me the villagers were hostile at first, like they were starving, but softened as they learned of your true intentions in simply wanting to act as an intermediary… for an allyship between the Tanaka and the Subarashii territories? They did not question this?”

“They did question it, your Lordship, they did!” Kobayashi exclaimed, spinning lies in his head as he spoke. “I was almost subjected to gruesome torture upon my initial arrival, as they believed me to be a cruel spy from an enemy territory… but I took careful precaution in acting exactly like a samurai from the Tanaka territory, and as you can see by my being alive before you today, your Lordship, I succeeded!”

Yutana stroked his chin, thinking. “This training may be useful to our ranks… I have made my decision.”

Hope blossomed in Kobayashi’s heart, only to be shattered by Yutana’s words: “You have done excellently, my friend… I will send a group of disguised persons out to the village of Persistent Strength tomorrow… I shall grant them six months, so they may become lavishly acquainted with this method you describe!! They will be a scribe, to take notes of the strategies, some fighters, two of the court’s oiran, as a gift, and four of my finest samurai, so they may train their men in these techniques upon their return… of which you are of course one, but you have done enough for me, & I trust you will lead your men well. You may rest, samurai Kobayashi.”

Kobayashi bowed, not showing any disappointment whatsoever. “Thank you, my Lordship. I trust they will not disappoint you.”

That night, Kobayashi fretted nervously about what to do– not only would his trust within the village be shattered and this lead to some conflict and suspicion, it also would result in his possible death! The Feudal Lord Yutana was unbending to emotional ties– it did not matter if Kobayashi was a commoner, his worst enemy, his brother, or, as the case was, his closest friend; if Yutana found that he betrayed him, he would die! He could not sleep, and in his unrest, concocted a sinister plan that he knew was evil, but was the only good solution, as far as he was concerned: he would kill every person in the group Yutana sent out, to preserve his own honour!

And so, very early in the morning, he hid among the bushes on the path he was certain Yutana would send them with his most trusted katana clenched tight in his sweaty fist. If he were a most honourable follower of the bushido as most samurai were, this very katana would have plunged into his stomach the second he caught himself lying to his lord, but as the matter stood, he had already cast aside all morals by betraying his friend and leader, so why not plunge himself further into the madness? He was not sure what exactly had changed within himself to act in such a drastic manner. He had never been a particularly greedy person, and he felt that, although it was certainly a contributing factor, he was not acting so rashly purely out of his selfish desire to grant his own wish… he also knew for a fact that Yutana had never wronged him, and that there was no real reason to so greatly betray he who had been his closest friend.

He wondered exactly how disastrous it would be if the group did arrive in Persistent Strength… surely, he would be killed, or exiled (which was more dishonourable), and the groups might quarrel some amongst one another– there lie the problem. Following the quarrel, the village of Persistent Strength would surely offer Harvester as a token of peace to prevent war from breaking out between the grand territory under the Feudal Lord Yutana and that of Subarashii. No matter how great, a single village and then some less remarkable forces of a smaller land simply could not wipe out an army of samurai so great and honour-bound as that of Yutana!!

As soon as he heard footsteps approaching, Kobayashi peered through the leaves of the bush in which he was hidden, and immediately recognised the faux-uniforms of the “Tanaka” samurai. Following the group of about four samurai were the scribe, a few common fighters, & two oiran, one of whom was presumably a woman and the other a man, both decorated lavishly in makeup, expensive clothing, and hair accessories. It almost seemed a shame to put such a rude end to such living pieces of art, but it could not be helped… with an almost insane cry, Kobayashi leapt out from within the bush and immediately slit the first two samurai’s throats, catching them so off guard they had not even the time to draw their weapons, as Kobayashi danced around, fighting with the other two samurai, who underestimated him due to his appearance.

Kobayashi had not acted entirely rashly, and disguised himself as a madman, wearing tattered clothes the refined Kobayashi would never dare touch, and the mask of a demon, with wicked eyes and a rolling tongue. One oiran fainted and the woman caught him, fanning his face while at the same time shuffling backwards, seeming to silently accept her fate. The samurai’s not taking him seriously led to their downfall, as they never would have suspected the offender was none other than the great samurai Kobayashi, Yutana’s right hand man and knife-in-the-back! Kobayashi had to fight himself from shedding any more blood… it would be senseless to kill the others. Two were only oiran, surely not fit to fight or brave enough to tread onwards, the other was a scribe, fitting of the same description, and the fighters were prisoners, foreign prisoners, presumably Chinese, branded, and bound in heavy chains which Kobayashi cut, setting them free. As he’d expected, they ran to either side like startled fish in a tank, owing the feudal lord no loyalty.

After he made some threatening noises at the remaining audience, the female oiran managed to slap the sense into the male, and the two ran off, followed closely by the scribe. It was terrible, your Lordship, Kobayashi imagined them saying, An absolute madman appeared in our paths, and killed our beloved samurai shamelessly, before they even had the chance to respond… and oh, oh, the prisoners, those terrible rapists and thieves and murderers, the madman just cut them free!! We are so awfully sorry there was nothing we could do to help; it all happened so fast…

While Kobayashi could not undo the lie he had told his lord, he had at least bought himself some time… cold terror; he had not thought this through! He had not bought himself some time; Yutana would only send more men!! He had thousands of them! And so, the poor oiran and the scribe fell victim to the blade after all; as much as Kobayashi had wanted to spare their lives, he could not risk his plan falling into shambles so quickly. He just needed some time… he had six months, if all went well, before he would have to find some way to disappear, preferably with the sorcerer.

He carefully buried the bodies of the deceased and stole a uniform from one of the samurai whose throat he had slit, finding there was not a terrible amount of blood staining his clothes. Kobayashi felt remorseful over their deaths, certainly, but he was not as sensitive to it as the average person might be– after all, since his childhood, he had seen plenty of blood and death; the only difference here was that it was not an “enemy” he had slain, but one of his side. A chilling thought entered his mind. Who cares? The enemy has loved ones and family, too. The people in Persistent Strength had proven to him that much.

His journey back took much longer than it had him the first time, as now he not only had no map, he also had no steed, and found himself having to awkwardly stumble from village to village, guessing his way back to Persistent Strength.

When he finally arrived, a good week and a half later, he found nothing had changed about the village at all… unsurprisingly, as he had really not been gone for so long at all. It still seemed like it, perhaps because time passed slower now that blood had been spilled so cruelly in its path. Kobayashi would never tell Harvester about this, even if Yutana got to him first… he decided he would rather kill himself, than let Harvester hear about the evils he had committed in his name. He knew Harvester would only blame himself, and that he already had a guilty enough conscience about accidentally killing the people whose stories he had told. He gripped his head. Harvester, Harvester, Harvester.

The name haunted him like a melody he could not forget, and it brought him agony when he was not with it. His longing for the sorcerer’s friendship ached like an ulcer in his heart, and he almost felt like he was dragging himself into the village, only very sloppily greeting the guard, who let him in with a concerned side-glance and a murmur to his friend on duty. He dragged himself to the inn, where he only exchanged a few brief words with the inn-keeper, then threw himself upon the same bed he’d stayed on last time, only able to see brilliant red hair and yellow eyes when he closed his, torturing him, until he fell into a deep, restless, dreamless sleep.

When he woke up, he thought he was still dreaming, but after blinking a few times and rubbing his eyes, he found this was not the case– in front of him, very much real, sat Harvester, whose gaze quickly averted to the book in his lap– this one garishly illustrated with what looked like children’s renditions of ukiyo-e, done in sloppy ink and amateurish watercolor. “Good morning, friend,” he said quietly, a long-nailed finger flipping the page. “How did you know I was here?” Kobayashi abruptly asked, suddenly embarrassed, realising he slept under the covers fully nude, having had stripped himself entirely of his garments & undergarments, so hot it had been the night before. Strangely warm for the coming autumn.

“This is a small village, and news travels very quickly,” Harvester quipped, holding his dragon fan over his face as he offered Kobayashi a robe, which the latter graciously accepted, slipping out of his bed to put it on quickly, giving Harvester an OK, after which the fan was lowered. Harvester wore less than he usually did, probably even he being unable to bear the bizarre heat, stripped down to a mere kimono decorated with scenes of fish and tangerine trees. He smiled. “I’m very glad you came back… it was a terribly lonely week, and I got very sick.” He giggled a bit. “Some of the villagers were even afraid I was going to die… they’re so dramatic.”

Kobayashi only lightly grunted in response, too embarrassed to say he felt awfully lonely too in that short week. He chose to cage his emotions in his heart, believing that expressing such sentiments was reserved for the weak. He liked Harvester, but he would never go so far as to lie to himself and say he had a strong personality, and beyond magical abilities, would definitely categorise him as one of the weak.

The village was prosperous as ever, and Kobayashi was able to peacefully set behind him the horrors he would surely have to face in the future, distracted by a more pleasant present. He no longer had to reside in the inn… since he was going to be staying for so long, Harvester invited him to move into his own “home,” the hut that had at this point been donated to him by Misaki, as she used it for nothing but to store objects that were of no real use to her. Kobayashi gladly accepted and the two lived harmoniously, or so it would seem on a surface level… Kobayashi kept Harvester magnificent company, but when he was in his long sleeps, he would secretly take the book of sorcery and feverishly copy the scripts pertaining to his interest, determined to, before his time was up, grant his own wish!

And perhaps if he could, indeed, pull off this remarkable feat, he need not worry about the current “future…” perhaps his entire fate would change, as he went down a spectacular legend in Japan!! The giddiness alone kept him preoccupied, and it consumed him whenever he was away from Harvester, unable to do anything but religiously copy, and recite, and copy, and recite. He hid his copyings inside his heavy coat of armor, which he had not cleaned since he’d arrived again in the village, and did not intend to, as it made a remarkable hiding place.

One day, however, he returned from picking apples with Harvester to find his armor was gone… panic seized his heart, and he rushed to find his armor, assuring the sorcerer he would be back as soon as he found it. Harvester offered to simply buy, or even make, him a new set, but he declined the offer, claiming this set of armor was particularly important to him as it had once belonged to his sworn brother. Lies, lies, lies. It hurt him to lie so blatantly to his most beloved friend, but at this point, he had gotten so tangled in his own web he had to be careful another spider did not come along and eat him. Discreetly, he hid his favourite katana in his robe as he headed out, hoping his intuition would be correct– he presumed that Misaki or one of her brothers had taken the armour to clean, after finding the dirty (& admittedly, slightly pungent, although Harvester was too meek to say anything) set in the hut and thinking nothing of it.

Kobayashi thanked the universe his hunch had been correct, as by a river in the forest bordering Persistent Strength, leaned up against an ancient tree, he saw one of Misaki’s brothers sitting, eating an apple… & more perturbingly, flipping through the pages of Kobayashi’s writing, his brow creased. It was obvious the work did not belong to Harvester– Harvester’s works were contained entirely to his signature black & gold book, or written very neatly in long, confusingly written scriptures hanging from the walls of the hut, in a style that even the old masters would have a hard time deciphering. Also, Harvester liked to paint very pretty pictures on his writing, to liven them up, from bunny rabbits to peacocks to cranes to pandas to… any creature he found beautiful, and just so happened to vaguely know how to draw. Anybody who knew him as closely as Kobayashi, Misaki, her brothers, & a select handful of the villagers did, would know that was not his writing!

Still, Kobayashi chose to play it cool, approaching the brother with a pleasant disposition. The brother must have noticed him already, for he did not flinch when he was spoken to: “Good day– you are one of Misaki’s brothers, are you not?”

“I am,” the brother said, unshaken. His gaze was still affixed to the text. “This is very old,” he noted, tapping on a corner. It crumbled slightly. “Yet the writing is quite fresh, scribbled in sloppy scripture as though in a hurry…” He took a long bite from his apple, rather rudely speaking while he chewed, “Life should not be taken rapidly. You’ll miss out on a lot of important things if you try to rush. Even in battle, you must think deliberately, and concisely, and appreciate the art of war… in life, we are all artists, of different mediums, and our skill is measured by our dedication.”

He swallowed, and looked at Kobayashi. Now any feeling of ease Kobayashi had had melted away like a snowflake on a finger, as he was met by ice in the brother’s gaze– no, glare. “I do not know you, personally, but I am well-acquainted with the sorcerer Harvester, and know he would not write like this… I also know he takes very good care of you, and would not be so careless as to let somebody put leaflets in your armor. Additionally, only you, my brother, or my sister would have access to his book of sorcery, and this is not a one of our handwriting, nor would we stuff it in your armour.”

Kobayashi had nothing to say.

“As I expected,” the brother said, of his silence. Kobayashi was so angry, he was not even able to appreciate the older man’s beauty, with serene brown eyes, smooth skin, a defined nose, and sleek hair tied into a chonmage that defied convention, as he had not shaved a part of his head. He wore a loose white robe, clearly not having had been planning to go anywhere that day. “Are you attempting to overthrow the sorcerer Harvester, samurai Kobayashi? I warn you, that as a mere mortal, not to mention a guest of the village, you will not be welcomed to do so… the dark arts will only eat your soul being used improperly like this.” He pointed at a segment of the scripture. “I have never seen the original, but from your writing, this book was clearly not meant to be used by mere humans such as you and I… in fact, I am not certain if a human even wrote this; the convoluted wording seems more like it belongs to a supernatural being!”

Kobayashi drew his katana but did not fully unsheath it, as the brother warned him, “You seem like that dark magic is already getting to your head… for your sake, mine, the village’s, and the sorcerer’s, I warn that you do not harm me.” He curled his lip a bit, like he wanted to spit, but would not do so, for to tarnish mother nature with his saliva was improper and lower than the high standards he had set for himself. “I do not think your beloved Harvester’s heart would be able to take to my death, anyways.” He said this with some cruel intonation that set Kobayashi off, and before he could move a hair, Kobayashi caught him by surprise, grabbing him by the ears like a bull… he swiftly plunged his head underwater and used all his might to hold him down, even as the other jolted and tossed and kicked, until he did no more, and the body was limp, peacefully crumpled on the ground. Kobayashi swiftly collected his writings, waited, then ran back to the village, waving his arms about to cause a commotion.

“The brother of Misaki has drowned, how terrible!!!” He cried, quickly catching the attention of several villagers, who ran outside. Among these villagers were of course Misaki and her remaining brother, faces ghostly white. “Where is he?!” Misaki demanded. “He’s by the river nearest here, where I believe this village washes clothes… it was terrible; I went to see if my armor was there, &... oh, what a terrible fate unbecoming of a fine young samurai such as him!!”

Still putting others before herself, Misaki begged Kobayashi to inform Harvester of the news & stay by his side in case he were grief-stricken. Almost enviously, haunted by the last words of the deceased, Kobayashi wondered what sort of a relationship Harvester might have had with the late samurai, but decided it did not matter, as it had never been mentioned. He more-than-happily did as told, and spent the night comforting an, indeed, grief-stricken Harvester, whose heart seemed to register every death he encountered as heavily as he had his first.

Kobayashi wondered if he were at this point a monster… he had betrayed and lied to his lord and childhood friend, he had killed some of his comrades & some innocent bystanders, he had lied to the villagers whom, to him, had been so friendly, and even killed one of them because of something so petty and selfish as having had found his writings based off the sorcerer’s text… & even to the sorcerer himself, he lied, by concealing significant parts of the truth! He again chose not to dwell on this, determined that he was still on a path of righteousness, and that all of his actions would be, ultimately, for the greater good of Japan when he finally became a legendary samurai, who, if his story were told even beyond Japan, may even bring smiling honour to his beloved country!

As with enemies slain on the battlefield, he was certain the lives he’d put to rest were for good cause… and thus as Harvester finally calmed down and fell asleep in his arms, Kobayashi fell asleep, too, dreaming only of pleasant things… lavender fields and cauliflower skies.

Months passed, and Kobayashi grew more and more confident in his skills as a fledgling sorcerer… he was able to make wilted flowers bloom again, and even restore the bodies of dead animals, even if he could not bring them back to life. He found himself wondering again as to the limits of Harvester’s abilities to grant wishes… he knew the reason why he did not grant powerful wishes, but he could still not grasp why he only was able to grant one a year. Fearing this may cause repercussions since his first “wish” had already been granted months earlier, he decided one day to ask, “Harvester?”

Harvester looked up from the finely embroidered sheet he was working on, decorated with whimsical birds and lively ghosts. “For what reason can you not grant more than one wish per year?”

Harvester looked a bit sheepish, as he stuck his needle back through the cloth. “It’s a bit embarrassing, really, and you already think I have such a weak character; I don’t want to seem pathetic…”

“If I found you pathetic I would not so lovingly devote hours upon hours of my day to you,” Kobayashi responded. He internally made a note to wish, if he were so powerful, for Harvester to have self confidence. He didn’t mind his constant lamentations, but he felt so terribly for him… to him, Harvester was the epitome of a good, pure person, and if he could, he would wish upon him only the most wonderful things, so he could live in the “painting world” he had described to him so long ago, when they first met.

“So long ago” sometimes seemed like yesterday.

Brushing a bit of hair out of his face, Harvester answered, “I actually can grant many wishes… there is no limit, truly, to the amount of wishes I can grant within a year, so long as they are innocuous.” Kobayashi was puzzled by this, his expression shifting. “This is where it gets a bit silly… I’m afraid that if I allow people to so ludicrously be granted wishes, that I will wither away… a husk of a person, hollowed out because I have been used, and used, and used… with no love being given to me in return. I learned when I was young how painful it is to be used, and to only be liked for what I can contribute, rather than who I am… which is why I try very hard to be a friend to the villagers, more than just “he who grants wishes.” Even you…” Harvester bit his lip and averted his gaze, seeming very ashamed. “I value you, and I love you very much, but even you I am afraid would use me for wishes if I became a wishing well… I wish for you to remember I am human, & do not want to be a hypocrite by granting only you wishes… so I set my limit firmly at one wish annually.”

Kobayashi chewed on his thumb, ingesting his words. Harvester, despite his insecurities, was wise beyond his years, making it hard for even him to remember sometimes that he was only in his early twenties. “I understand that wholeheartedly… do not call it silly; I respect this decision of yours fully, and see why you would assert it so. I do not mean this in an unkind way, but I think you need to cultivate some self-confidence.” Still, he shot Harvester a half-teasing smile, rocking on his heels. “So even if I asked for it, you wouldn’t grant me my wish to be a legendary samurai?”

Harvester laughed a bit. Kobayashi had become quite fond of his laugh– he noticed, through the time they had spent together, that Harvester only ever really laughed in his presence. The sorcerer was otherwise too shy to put up anything beyond a solemn face, or a weak smile. Something about Kobayashi must bring out his “good side,” for every time they were together, it was like bells, chiming in the breeze, and not because Kobayashi was a funny person… it was a laugh of enjoyment, of genuine happiness, that could not be emulated to the samurai’s ears, no matter how good of an impersonator anybody was. “I wouldn’t grant you that wish if you were my favourite person in the world,” Harvester mused.

The fireplace flickered warmly in the background and the room was enveloped in the sweet smell of eucalyptus, mint, and sage Harvester seemed so fond of, his extravagance not slighted as he specifically requested incense sticks to be imported from China, as he believed the ones in Japan just didn’t capture the scent quite correctly. Dusty books littered the floor and a colorful, yet uniform array of wall-paintings accompanied by neatly written ancient script decorated the otherwise unassuming walls, and miscellaneous trinkets were scattered about… Harvester’s abode was the perfect balance of organised and disorganised, the two working hand in hand to create a comforting, yet clean environment, in which one could sleep and feel at home, even if they had never been there before in their life. Kobayashi felt, for a striking moment, a painful sort of bittersweet as he absorbed the environment, knowing this could not last, before he suddenly blurted, “Am I not your favourite person?”

“My favourite person is me!” Harvester chirped, fanning himself rapidly in a teasing, comical manner. “I have decided this just now, since you have told me to be more self confident… I am first in this world!!” Kobayashi couldn’t help but to laugh as well at Harvester’s newfound “confidence,” abandoning all fronts as the two laughed in harmony, going perfectly in stride with one another…

...but as Kobayashi already knew, good things would never last; the moment was melancholy as soon as it passed, a beautiful lily tread upon by a wild boar. He grew all the more confident in his abilities as the fourth month since his second arrival passed, and he went so far as to test his wish-granting abilities. He was headstrong, for sure, and believed that what differentiated him from Harvester was simply confidence, rather than any particular talent or skill. What differentiates a sorcerer from a wizard, anyways? He thought to himself, catching the conversation of a pair of villagers walking by. One happens to be born with magic and expands upon it, the other simply learns it. “I wish it were raining,” a farmer-samurai mumbled, more likely fated to forever be a farmer, given he was missing a leg, hobbling along on a makeshift crutch. “My crops have been doing so wonderfully, but this drought as of late, I fear, will crimp my style.” Kobayashi closed his eyes and under his breath, murmured the key “wish-granting” phrases he’d painstakingly memorised from Harvester’s texts. As soon as he finished, he felt a droplet on his nose… then another, and another, and soon enough, rain was pouring from the sky, making the farmer-samurai beam and Kobayashi’s confidence go through the roof!

As Harvester fussed over his wet clothes and soaking hair, taking special care to prepare for him a bath infused with his favourite scented oils, Kobayashi wished he could tell Harvester of his little victory, but was smart and held his tongue. He had only seen Harvester in a bad mood a few times, but each time was simply awful… not only because he had to see the usually-so-sweet Harvester angry, but because Harvester’s anger was likely his weakest point, and at the same time, ironically, his strongest, inviting the worst of the dark arts to march with his stride. When he was in a bad mood, Harvester walked with literal storm clouds over his head, and was bitter and nasty to even Kobayashi, speaking with the tongue of a serpent and looking with eyes of pure evil, cold enough to turn anybody into ice! Another one of his weak points was that he at times grew terribly possessive, and when coupled with a bad mood, this resulted in cruel words and things-better-left unsaid.

The villagers knew long & well to avoid Harvester whenever he got in such a “mood,” but hadn’t warned Kobayashi of it, who had had to suffer through one or two of these fits, which was more than enough for him to know to leave Harvester to his own devices when upset.

More terrifying than the anger alone was there was never a good reason as to what prompted it, nor was there ever a clear distinction to what would cause what reaction in Harvester and why… Kobayashi imagined two distinct possibilities were Harvester to learn of his betrayal. One, he would fly into an extreme rage and spit and curse and condemn the samurai’s name so far as generations a thousand years back, or two, he would start to uncontrollably weep and curl into a ball of insatiable self-loathing, unable to blame anybody but himself for how things had turned out, or worse yet, think Kobayashi had only been using him for his magical abilities all along, even after he had confided in him this was one of his greatest fears!!

The next day, Kobayashi managed to grant a minor wish, and the day after, and the day after… after an entire week of tiny wishes being granted at such speed and with such accuracy he was certain they were not mere coincidences, Kobayashi plunged into perfecting his long-awaited spell… to grant himself his own wish!!

He’d planned to wait a few months to do so, but he heard from a town gossip there was trouble afoot… apparently the Feudal Lord Yutana was of plan to storm the village of Persistent Strength, suspicious since recently his men found, deep, deep underground, the mission he had sent all those months before… and not to mention, although unbeknownst to the gossip, that his most trusted samurai was missing! Kobayashi cursed the skies that he hadn’t been given a few more months to prepare, but was at once grateful at least he’d had some time to prepare, and that his plan, albeit a bit more rushed, was not a total shot in the dark. He carefully planned out how he would handle this… he contemplated placing himself in chains, making himself out to be a prisoner after Yutana’s samurai, undoubtedly, squashed the samurai of Persistent Strength. Perhaps he would place Harvester in chains as well, or fake his death…

Tomorrow? They’re coming tomorrow?! What have we ever done to offend the Lord Yutana?! What would we have to do with the death of his men on some random path…

Oiran, as well? And a court scribe? It’s blasphemous that we would be accused of such things… oh well, perhaps they are using it as a cover to simply attack us, in the name of “defense…” I hope we can talk this over with them without shedding any blood, but still, we will have to suit up, just in case!

Hearing the gossip, Kobayashi panicked, deciding there was no time to waste… it was now or never; he would become a legendary samurai, and he would put an end to this spiral of problems that seemed to have only been worsening since the first time he visited the village!!

The next morning, he dressed in his karuta, kabuto, and the rest of his attire, armed with three fine katana, then rushed to the room in which Harvester slept, and the latter seemed surprised to see him in such a disarray, in the middle of meditation when he barged in. He stood up and opened his mouth, but before he could say a thing, Kobayashi kissed him square on the lips, holding him carefully by his neck and back so he could not fall. Harvester immediately fainted, as Kobayashi’s kiss doubled not only as an affectionate gesture, but to temporarily drain his powers, a technique not even Harvester had ever used, and was therefore entirely stunned by when confronted by it. Gently, Kobayashi lay Harvester down on his bamboo mat as though he were really asleep, shifting him to a comfortable position. Rest for now… I hope that when you rise, this nightmare will be over, and the both of us can continue to live with the mud of our past lives cleaned off our feet!!

Casting him one last look, Kobayashi thought, but actually said out loud, “I would value you just as much as I do if you were a normal person.”

Taking a deep breath, he wished to himself, “I wish to become a legendary samurai, who will be remembered for ages, in history and history to come… name not only sealed in legend in Japan, but in the world beyond!!”

He repeated, quietly, every single word and number from Harvester’s convoluted texts he had memorised pertaining to powerful wishes, until he had spoken six entire pages’ worth without even realising… at first, he felt nothing, aside from perhaps a bit of dismay at thinking his spell had not worked. However, as he began to move, he felt a sudden power in his body, a power which he had never experienced before! He almost fainted, but his body gained control of itself, as though it were controlled by a spirit entirely not his own, while the real “him” slept somewhere inside.

It was the quiet of the morning– Yutana’s men had not yet arrived. Kobayashi didn’t even have the time to breathe a sigh of relief before an insane bloodlust took over him all of a sudden. He rapped on the door of Misaki and her brother’s residence. Minutes later, she opened it, dressed fully in her armour, as though she’d already been expecting a foe. Before she could call for her brother, Kobayashi skillfully cut her, slicing through her armor like it was butter, even his blade possessing a new soul that was not its own. Following Misaki’s demise was her brother, but even after those two, the new Kobayashi’s bloodlust was not satisfied… he had completely lost his senses. He followed the same pattern until the entire village awoke in a panic and gathered in the murk of morning to confront him… you’d think he was up against a pile of ants rather than some of the most refined, skilled, and blessed samurai in Japan, as he cut down person after person after person, sparing neither man, nor woman, nor child, nor anybody else, until surrounding him was only a heap of dead flesh.

Two villagers, a child and his mother, survived, and had run to the nearest village, begging them to come help, and they did– like cattle to the slaughter, even the neighbour village fell victim to Kobayashi’s katana, which glowed a menacing crimson under the red moon’s glow, illuminated by the fresh blood against its silver surface. The child and his mother hid in the woods, feeling awful they had bothered to even ask for help… it was a demon, they were certain, a demon had entered their beloved village and torn all their friends and family to shreds, and then some!!! What human could be capable of committing such an atrocious act?!

Following the slaughter, Kobayashi’s disturbed soul sensed only silence in the village… peaceful, slumbering silence, like everybody had gone to sleep. Before him lie not cadavers, but sleeping villagers… silly, sleeping villagers, lying in a heap of the middle of the town. The bloodlust simmered down, until it was suddenly disrupted by a sensation– somebody moving. Living flesh. Somebody was still alive!! Like a blind dog, Kobayashi teeteringly followed the source, feeding off the terror emitting from the person standing before him, who whispered a final wish, knowing he was going to die: it was none other than Harvester, who had awoken from his own slumber, and came out to confront Kobayashi, only to be greeted by his favourite friend covered in the blood of all the villagers who had been so kind to him, now lying in heaps like surface level mass burial grounds before him, rendering him speechless, sinking to his knees. “Kobayashi, what have you done?” he asked, unable even to sob, as he stared, aghast, feeling faint, but forcing himself not to fall again.

He received no response, so he stood upright. He would not allow himself to become a pitiful, self-loathing crumb in what were likely his final moments, especially not in front of Kobayashi, or whoever had possessed him, who had made so sure to try to instill confidence in him. “Kobayashi, what have you done?” he screamed, moving boldly towards the samurai, who had long stripped of the bulky armour and helmet, finding he could move much more easily with only his robes and his katanas. Blood obscured the majority of his features, and Harvester felt a pit of despair rising in his gut, not even able to see the face of his closest friend one last time. “Why don’t you just kill me already?” he cried, unable to put up a front anymore. There was no need to act, anyways– he knew that he was not speaking to Kobayashi, so he could not even have his final moment of honour. “Kill me!!” he screamed, more adamantly, hoping to at least get through to Kobayashi, if he did not die. Tears streamed down his face, and he groveled, hating himself… he cursed himself, and tore at himself, ironically, because he could not be confident like Kobayashi had always wished for him. It was too late. Whatever happened now, it was too late.

Perhaps death would be better, anyways… all his life, it seemed that wherever Harvester went, he only invited chaos, in spite of all good intentions, even now, with the first village to ever have embraced him gone, and his dearest friend virtually dead. With nobody, Harvester felt again like he did in those woods when he chose to let himself die of the cold, no longer having the will to live. This time, however, he would not leave himself to the mercy of mother nature… he did not know from whom he was born, but he always knew, innately, he was not of this world. “Kill me!” he shrieked again, and when Kobayashi still did not move, perhaps acting as the cat lurking over its helpless prey.

He felt that he was irredeemable, probably even more irredeemable than the greatest monsters of history… he was irredeemable in that, no matter how hard he tried, he could not change! He could never bring himself to truly master the dark arts because he feared bringing about negative consequences, he could never bring himself to truly express his affections for Kobayashi because he feared his judgment, he could never bring himself to socialise with his classmates because he feared they would not like him, and he could never bring himself to love himself because he feared it would make him arrogant… and that fear that had haunted him his entire life finally caught up to him through a slow-stepped dance, placing him in the ugliest trap: due to his fear in the past, he did not know a single spell to stop a rampaging madman like Kobayashi!!

Finally, with a slow, dream-like movement, Kobayashi took a step forward and with a movement so fast even Harvester did not notice it, he drove his favourite katana through the sorcerer’s throat. Forth from the wound sprung a magnificent pool of scarlet blood matching his vibrant hair, from which some of the blood landed on Kobayashi’s lip… when he licked off the wizard’s blood, he gained a sudden moment of clarity, losing his stolen powers, and found his spell to be broken!! Kobayashi’s regaining his sanity cast him into a deeper state of insanity than that which he had been in before… in front of him, he found his dearest friend dead, and behind him, he found the villagers who had been so kind to him in the past in spite of his selfish intentions all dead as well, stacked in piles of resentful bodies, & then some he did not even recognise! Looking at the expression on Harvester’s face, he knew his death had not been a remotely peaceful one, from the smudged powder & rouge pooling on the ground by his weeping half-severed head.

Allowing himself, after so many years of simply keeping his emotions to himself as he did not want to seem “unmanly” to others, to sob, Kobayashi fell to his knees and embraced the body of the bygone sorcerer, removing the katana & cursing himself more than any person in the entire village could wish to. Sitting Harvester so that he sat behind him, a pair of arms loosely dangling over his shoulders and his stomach pressed up against his back, Kobayashi tearfully drove the katana through his stomach and Harvester’s, whispering one final, hopeful wish under his breath: that he & Harvester be united in death as spirits, & that Harvester could find it in his gracious heart to forgive him!

Come sunrise, Yutana’s men, which turned out only to be a handful, sent to discuss matters with the departed leader of Persistent Strength, were shocked to be met by a morbid landscape: a river of blood, and mountains of bodies, painted with the brushstrokes of three katana. Where the guards of the village normally stood, there stood only the mother and child who solely survived the incident, tearfully explaining the unbelievable events that had happened.

The men were shocked to see the woman point out Kobayashi as the perpetrator, easily identified by the katana lodged in his stomach & his distinctive makeup, which he liked to do like a kabuki theatre samurai, always trying to leave an impression. The woman and child were taken to the Feudal Lord Yutana, who had a hard time believing the tale, but no reason to disbelieve it, either, as the evidence did indeed all stack up in damnation of Kobayashi…

...the tale of the samurai who had not only betrayed his lord, but also killed two whole villages, one of which was a group of elite samurai, as well as a great sorcerer, spread like wildfire. First, it traveled through Japan, until within a few weeks’ time, it became a popular tale of gossip in nearly every village, and was already being used to threaten cocky young samurai who thought they’d want to try and be legend-worthy samurai. The tale spread out even beyond Japan, picking up through woodblock prints and retellings across trade routes, making its way as far west as to Holland, a country on the Atlantic shoreline, and was quickly adapted cross-culturally, each retelling throughout the years remaining roughly the same… the tale of a great warrior, who killed not only the people along his path who were so kind to him, but also his best friend, or, depending on what version of the story you read, his lover!

& so, the great samurai Kobayashi’s wish was granted…

He became a legendary samurai…

Legendary for killing all of his friends, & then himself!

#harvester #kobayashi #thelegendarysamuraikobayashi #shortstory #tragedy #romance #historical

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janvangouden · 4 years ago

Text

STINKBUG PUSSY

shortish story, horror / mystery. written by jan van gouden.

I haven’t been myself lately. I’ve been tired, more tired than usual. I used to wake up in the AM, but now every day I sleep until noon. My wife’s been getting really tired of it, even as I explain there’s nothing I can do to help it… I go to bed at ten, I wake up at noon. I go to bed at one AM, I wake up at noon. There’s no winning. She’s recommended I go to the doctor— “Narcolepsy,” she told me, with one of those accusatory fingers in my chest. “You’ve probably got narcolepsy, or some other sort of sleep disorder… you should really get it checked out, Samuel. I’m worried for you.”

I’m not worried for me. I work in sales, the night shift, and I get the weekends off. I answer phones.

“Good evening, ma’am, Sarber Wedding Sales. May I ask what you’re calling for?”

“Hi, yeah— I got this dress from your store lately, and I loved it, and I know this is kind of last minute— my wedding’s tomorrow, but one of the buttons came off in the back… do you think I could pull an appointment with a tailor before then? I don’t want to have to sue…” She used a very sweet voice, perfume over the shit of the fact that she was basically blackmailing us into tailoring her stupid dress, and probably wanted us to do it for free. Not so fast. “Certainly, ma’am, may I ask your name and birthdate?”

“Susan Saran, September 7th—”

I interrupted her. “Alright, Susan, I just found your file… your wedding’s at ten A.M, tomorrow?” I’d sleep through it.

“Yeah, it is… hopefully it’s not too tight, like I said, I love the dress, and…”

“I can have you scheduled with a tailor at eight A.M; does that work? He should have it done for you in ten minutes’ working time.”

“Right, yeah… will that cost anything?”

I squashed the hopeful intonation of her voice. “Twenty-five dollars, ma’am.”

Disappointment; she hung up before I could say anymore. I rung up a tailor then went on to pick the next call. Call after call after call. I got off work at twelve A.M; my wife, Sally, was long asleep. I quietly tucked myself into the sheets next to her, only to wake up in a cold sweat. Sally was gone. My furniture was gone. I told myself I was dreaming, but nonetheless, I was all alone. “We’re getting married tomorrow at dawn,” said a grasshopper, weeping into a lace ‘kerchief.

“You don’t seem very enthusiastic.”

“I’m not. My mother, she—” The grasshopper blew her nose. “—she’s having me marry a cricket… I find crickets so dreadfully ugly, and he can’t jump through fields like I can.” She lifted a leg, showing off a spine and a spur. My leg trembled a bit, and admittedly, I tried to look under her skirt. She didn’t look at all like a human woman, and I couldn’t even be certain she was a woman, aside from my presumption based on her voice & apparel. “No, you’re right; they certainly couldn’t,” I murmured, rubbing my chin.

We stared at one another in awkward silence for a moment, and then she disappeared, as quickly as she came. I woke up again, for real, this time, still sweating, but it wasn’t a cold sweat. This was a hot sweat, hot and sticky. I scrambled out of bed and checked the time. 7 P.M. Shit. That meant I’d been out for more than twelve hours. More concerningly, that meant I only had half an hour to my shift. I rushed into a half-assed suit and ran downstairs, pouring myself a glass of orange juice and grabbing a granola bar. Sally sat at the table, staring at me with this strange expression. “Where’ve you been?”

“I was asleep. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I tried waking you up at one, but you didn’t budge.” She was reading a book. Reginald and the Ruby Mines. Whatever. “You need to shake me to wake me up, Sally, shake me.”

“Well maybe I get sick of shaking you sometimes,” she muttered, earning her a glare she ignored. “Dinner’s in the fridge for when you get back; I made spaghetti. Don’t bother looking for sauce; I used it up.”

“You’re an angel,” I grumbled, but spared her no more thought, leaving for work. Again. Every day it was the same thing. Bitching brides, hustling husbands, botched bridesmaids, grievous groomsmen. Everyone always had some sort of beef, or some sort of question, or some sort of bizarre request. One time we had someone call in begging us to take the day off so we could fill in as guests, since no one wanted to come to the wedding. Unpopular couple, I guess.

I returned at twelve again, this time with a splitting headache. I realised I hadn’t showered in the past two days. Time was slipping away from me. I forced myself into the bathroom, dragging my hands down my face— I looked in the mirror. Thank God the rules for night shift were pretty lenient as far as dress code, because I looked like shit… my beard was pronouncing itself in little prickles on my face, my skin was acting up, my hair was unkempt, and my shirt had a stain on it from the orange juice that morning. That afternoon.

I unbuttoned my shirt and cringed when I saw my chest— it was oily and acne-ridden; the skin festered in little orange bumps and popped when I scratched at it, pus seeping out. “Jesus fuck,” I murmured to myself, holding some of the pus up to my eye. I scratched at my chest some more. Sebaceous glands, dirt, oil, the works. I wondered if I should see a dermatologist. I froze when after some digging I hit a shiny brown under my flesh. Shiny brown, and lots of it, as I dug more. Is there a reverse sleep deprivation? Over-sleep? Does that cause hallucinations? My chest was no longer mine; it was that of a cockroach, and my eyes looked suddenly less brown than they did a despicable black, soulless and selfish. I opened my mouth to examine my teeth, but when I did that, they all fell out, bloody and yellow. I held them in my hands and tried not to panic, certain this was a hallucination, or maybe even a dream… perhaps I had never woken up. Perhaps if I did, it would be eight A.M, scrambled eggs and bacon and Sally waiting for me downstairs.

Does anyone actually pinch themselves in their dreams? It doesn’t matter; I couldn’t anyways. My arms were degraded to gangly brown sticks. Cockroach arms, nice and hairy. In the corner of the mirror, I spotted the grasshopper. She was a sure sign I was dreaming; I knew for certain she couldn’t exist in reality. Neither could I, with a cockroach chest and cockroach eyes and cockroach arms and a cockroach mouth. I felt rather silly, and myself blushing as she approached me. “Good morning, handsome,” she purred. She wore a wedding dress, but I was not the groom. “I’ve been waiting all evening for you to come by. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“I’d love to have one,” I replied with a smile. Can a cockroach smile? “I’ve had the most stressful evening.... work was awful, just awful…”

“Work?” She laughed; her voice was that of an angel. “Oh, don’t be so silly darling… work is such a dated thing, nobody does that anymore. Were you having a bad dream?”

“I might have been,” I admitted, scratching my neck. Well, I wanted to, but I couldn’t. My legs— arms?— didn’t bend like that. “Say, what’s your name?”

“So you can kiss and tell?” She laughed again. “I’m Susan.” Susan. I couldn’t figure out why that name sounded so familiar to me.

“Right, Susan. How long until the wedding?”

“Only an hour, she sighed, wiping at her eye with her arolium. “I really didn’t want to marry a cricket… he seems nice, but he’s really just not my type.”

“Well, niceness isn’t reason to go off and get married to someone,” I lamented sympathetically. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to marry a cockroach, either. I’m ugly, just god-awful.”

“Looks aren’t a reason to marry someone either,” she crooned, tickling my pronotum. “It’s compatibility, darling, and I just think we have so much of it.”

“So much of it,” I repeated, out of it. As soon as I snapped back into it, she was gone, or more accurately, she was walking down the aisle in a grand white gown, from which a button rather noticeably hung loose, even more noticeably attemptedly concealed by her veil. “I’m getting married now,” I remembered her saying to me. Her words echoed in my head some before I woke up, Sally next to me, snuggled well into my side. The first thing I did was check my watch. Six A.M. I wouldn’t go back to bed; this was a victory for me. I slithered out of bed and to the kitchen to make myself a bowl of cereal. I poured in too much milk, and watched with a dead expression as it dripped from the counter onto the floor, making a big white puddle. I knew Sally would give me hell if I didn’t clean it up, but I was tired, so tired, so I just took the bowl of cereal to the table and started to eat it.

I felt like I was moving in slow motion, each bite more labored than the next. I might have fallen asleep; I couldn’t tell you. I found it harder to stay awake, or to stay asleep; I couldn’t tell you which one of those it was. I don’t think I remember who I am.

I was in a field, a beautiful field— a cricket lie somewhere below me, buried six inches under the dirt, turning into compost to make more beautiful flowers. The grasshopper and I were on a picnic, and we were dressed so quaintly… she in a handsome little peplum dress, and I in a little tweed suit, that I got from somebody. I don’t recall who.

Sally didn’t exist in this world, but I vaguely remembered her name somewhere in the back of my head. A reminder, maybe. I was late to work. Again. Shit.

The phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and I was certain it had it out for me. I stared at it for so long and so hatefully… its lustrous black surface, its shiny black wire. Old fashioned, a rotary. Very chic to the youngsters but nothing to me. Especially when I had to pick it up. There was a hand on my shoulder, and I looked up to see my boss, this worried sort-of expression in the wrinkles of her dark face. “You okay, Samuel?” she asked in a very-sweet voice. I struggled to remember her name. Something Sarber. I didn’t forget her first name, mind you. Her first name really was Something.

“I’m alright, Mrs. Sarber; I’m sorry… I’ve just been having some troubles at home, that’s all.”

“Anything you wanna talk about?” she asked in a very low voice, as though it would shield me from the prying ears of the surrounding cubicles. My work was such a shit-hole, now that I thought about it. Dusty books and outdated pamphlets everywhere, beige-brown-mustard-yellow everything, a perpetual smog and possible lead poisoning from the dated building. Built in 1802. “No, it’s alright— just some sleeping problems; Sally wants me to get it checked out by the doctor. I’m doing my best in the meanwhile.” The doctor. Had I already scheduled an appointment with him? I couldn’t recall. Troubling. There seemed to be a lot of gaps in my memory. “Alright, Sam. Just let me know if you really can’t take it anymore and I’ll get someone to cover your shift for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sarber.”

“Anytime, Sam.”

I suspected my cubicle-mate, Sordid, had called her for me… he was a well-meaning guy, but he was so nosy, always in everyone’s business but his own. I couldn’t blame the guy. In a job this boring, the only entertainment to be wrought is when you can wiggle yourself into someone’s business. I knew one guy who’d managed to hook up with some bride the night-before her big day; she’d invited him to her bachelorette party just for shits. Her husband didn’t care; I heard they’d even had a good laugh over it ‘cause he’d done the same. Young couples. I wished I was still young. I didn’t remember how old I was, but I knew I was out of my twenties. Basic information, Sam, I chided myself, and buried my head in my hands. It was so hot in the basement of the building. The must made me sneeze.

The sneeze woke me up enough to answer a call.

“Good evening, is this Sarber’s?”

“This is Sarber’s, how can I help you?”

“Oh, good. Well, you see, my wife’s been awful lonely lately, and I remember there was some guy at your store she really took a liking to… I can’t remember his name for the life of me, but according to her, he was— oh, hold on….

“Alright, his name was Saunders, at least, that was his last name… young, mid-twenties, bronze-ish skin, black hair, brown eyes, nice cheekbones… do you know him?”

I ran my fingers through my hair. Dandruff drifted to the surface of my desk. Dandruff. I hadn’t had that since I was a teen. “No, I’m afraid I don’t, sir, I’m sorry. I can try to dial him up through the directory; he might still be awake. Might I ask what you need? We offer tailoring, repairs, detailing—”

“She wants to fuck him,” the guy said very abruptly, interrupting me. “My wife wants to fuck this Saunders character, and I want to fuck him, too. We want to fuck him together. I want him to fuck her while I fuck him. Can you please relay this to him?”

I would not. “Sir, I’m afraid that’s not offered in our line of services, but I appreciate your interest.”

“What do you look like?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m curious.”

“Well, I’m 5’11”, brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin, mid-thirties…” I stopped myself. Why in God’s name was I answering him? I was so tired, even though I knew damn well I’d slept a good fourteen hours. Sleep makes you tired. God’s cruel joke. “Nevermind. Why are you asking?”

“Well, I was going to ask if you could step in for—”

“I’m sorry, sir; we don’t offer those services. If you need a repair on any item of clothing, we can do that, but I’m afraid what you’re requesting is out of our bounds.”

The guy started droning on again. I think I fell asleep.

Part of me hoped I’d wake up again to that pleasant field and the grasshopper, but this time I woke up to what I was positive was some harsh aspect of my reality: a hospital. Bright lights blinded me as they shone harshly into my eyes, and I heard the distant murmur of voices that sounded oh-so-familiar, I just couldn’t place for the life of me. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t. I was restrained. I wasn’t me. I wasn’t the me I remembered, at least. I felt younger. I caught a distorted glimpse of myself in the silver of my hospital cot’s frame. I was younger. Gone were my eyebags and my fine lines of age. This was, yet again, a dream, or maybe a lucid memory. Whatever it was, I fought against it vehemently, trying to get back to the present. Trying to get back to life, my life.

Maybe Sally was right. I really did need to see a doctor.

Someone came into my “room,” but it wasn’t a nurse, or a doctor— it was a policeman, all shinied up in his brass blue uniform, a concerned expression on his face and a pen and notebook in hand. “How are you feeling, son?” I didn’t answer. I stared at him like a stray at a bear, wishing to recede into the mattress. Let me absorb. Let me absorb. I didn’t absorb, and I didn’t wake up. Whatever purgatory I was in, I was stuck in it. I couldn’t make out his face. “I’m sorry about what happened to your parents,” he lamented, taking off his copper hat. He was balding. “I know there are a lot of accusations towards… you, right now, and I have to do my job, so… I’m here to question you. Do you think you’re alright to do that?”

No, he wasn’t a copper, not a copper-copper. A private detective. His outfit changed on cue with my realisation. Probably some attorney’s investigator. “I’m fine,” I responded, sitting up a little. I realised I was cuffed to the cot. Someone didn’t want me to escape. No wonder I hadn’t been able to get up. “Good, then. Where were you when…” He went down the rabbit-hole of the questions you always hear the police ask, be it in shows, in movies, on TV, in person, or otherwise. I answered them like clockwork and he left me be. This wasn’t a dream. This was a memory, delivered to me in the form of a daydream. Inaccurate description, however, seeing I’d fallen asleep at work, at night. Nap dream.

“Sam, wake up, come on now.” That was Mrs. Sarber’s voice. “Do you think you can get up?”

“Yeah, I’m—” I shakily got up, leaning against my cubicle. Mrs. Sarber rushed to help me gain my bearings. “—I’m sorry, Mrs. Sarber… I wasn’t even aware I fell asleep; it won’t happen again; I—”

“Sh, sh, sh, sh, sh,” she shushed me, letting me lean on her as she walked me out the basement, into the fluorescent green light of the offices on the first floor. She was walking me towards the door. “Is Sally here?” I asked hazily, struggling to remain conscious. Come on, Sam; you’re embarrassing yourself, my conscience chided me. “She’s here, Sam; don’t you worry about that.” Once outside, I was greeted by flashing red and white lights. An ambulance, and some men in crisp little white suits with a stretcher. It’s uncanny how sometimes dreams predict the future. Sally was there; Mrs. Sarber hadn’t lied about that. The only way she had lied was by concealing from me some parts of the truth.

“Hey, Sam,” Sally said in a nice, quiet voice I wasn’t used to, as the men in white suits helped me onto the stretcher. I didn’t put up much of a fight, and I didn’t question anything. I was too tired. “Sally….” I didn’t need to say any more; she knew exactly what I was going to ask. It was pitch dark outside, aside from the building and the ambulance. It had to be late. “I’ve been worried about you, Sam… something’s changed, and I just wanna make sure you’re alright… I got a call from your boss at two that you’d fallen asleep, and well…” Sally messed with a string hanging from her slip. “...like I said, Sam, you’ve really been worrying me… you don’t eat, you barely ever sleep, sometimes you don’t remember who I am… I just wanna make sure you don’t go dying on me.”

A grim smile accompanied the last line. She placed a quick kiss on my forehead. “Also, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, especially because you’re not doing so hot, but… well, the police called; apparently they’re reopening that case…” That case. A memory lodged itself into my brain like a shard of glass, crystal clear. The daydream I’d had was that exact memory. My parents died when I was 16 and there’d been some big drama about it; the police made this big deal about investigating and interrogating me, but they couldn’t find any dirt. The case had been sitting on a dusty shelf in someone’s office for some fifteen odd years, and now some busybody had decided to reopen it.

Fantastic.

The workers loaded me into the ambulance, and Sally called out after me— “I’ll try to visit you at the hospital tomorrow… the police shouldn’t be giving you too much trouble, especially ‘cause you—”

They shut the doors before she could finish speaking and the ambulance roared to life, bumping and banging down the poorly maintained roads to the hospital, which was in equal or even worse disrepair, long discontinued construction making it an eyesore as we drove up and I was unloaded, rushed to the urgent care center. “I don’t think I should be taking up emergency space,” I murmured, but was ignored, even as I very faintly lifted a hand, making a circle in the air. “I’m not going to die, or anything. I’m just very tired, and not so hungry, that’s all. I think I’ll be alright. I don’t think I even need to be hospitalised.”

Ignored again. I shut my trap. Deja vu hit me as I was dumped into a little pink “room,” apparently meant for little kids; drawings of princesses littered the walls and the trim was sparkly pink. The ER was probably overloaded. I wondered, morbidly, if any little kid had died right where I lie. I fought sleep as I waited, and waited, and waited… I lost the war and again was in the world of the unknown, where I courted a recently-widowed grasshopper in the midst of a distorted reality. My dreams liked to continue off one another… this was a recent development; I’d say as soon as the past few months, for once, they would be erratic and entirely unrelated, but with the coming of my sleeping-in and barely-eating, they became more interwoven, more continuous, more comprehensible.

The grasshopper today was sobbing, and I consoled her, the big, bumbling blubberbus of a roach I was, kissing her so kindly on the cheek and wiping her tears. “Oh, my darling, don’t cry; surely, you must be able to see the light in your future?”

“It’s terrible, just terrible, my love… the damn ants believe that it was I who killed my cricket husband… oh, certainly, I wasn’t very fond of the fellow, and oh, surely, I was forced into the marriage… but to murder, my love, to murder?” She blew her nose, and again, I wiped away a tear. “I would never do such a thing… I am of the elite class, and find such immoral acts simply despicable and belonging to the lower insects… the worms, the slugs, the…” She dared not speak it, for she knew I was one. I did not begrudge her. The roaches were the scum of insects, but we would survive the nuclear fallout the humans above us were sure to invoke, so I counted my blessings.

“At least you know I believe you,” I consoled her, kissing her on her lovely cheek. “I know you would never do such a terrible thing…” I did not believe her, but I would never tell her this, for I knew it would break her poor fragile heart. You can’t over-excite a grasshopper. The poor thing’s heart will combust. It’s as cruel as asking a bumblebee how it can fly. It causes it to question its very existence.

“You’re such a wonderful man,” she cooed, and she was over me, her abdomen pressed against mine.

“Samuel,” said a man’s voice, and I knew it was not her. I was awake again, rubbing the grog from my eyes. A blurry figure stood above me. “Good, you’re awake. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but— as your wife may have informed you…” a heavy sigh. “...we’ve reopened the case pertaining to the murder of your parents years ago… see, your cousin, he recently fell into some serious financial troubles and… well, it may be unprofessional of me to say this, but I believe he’s attempting to con you out of your inheritance by fabricating a guilty charge against you pertaining to your parents’ death.”

My parents died brutally and horribly— my father had been shoved, commando, into an Edwardian dress once belonging to my ancestor, shaved entirely bald from the ears down, and decapitated. My mother had been cut to bits. The police never found their fingers or their toes. It had been a hot topic in my old hometown for months, and the conspirators drove me away, albeit I had inherited the house. I’d met Sally somewhere in high school, and we were reunited when we were about thirty. I gave up on college after I got my job at the wedding shop, which I really didn’t need, but the spectacle still haunted me, and I didn’t want to be known as the guy who bummed off his dead parents.

It’s funny how people can make you feel guilty about a tragedy you suffered.

I hadn’t actually comprehended any of what the man in the hospital said, however; I asked him to repeat himself, and he did. It took me a minute to fully process his statement. “Does my cousin have any sufficient grounds for reopening the case?”

“Well…” the man looked mildly disgusted, as he pulled a tightly-sealed baggy from his bag. Inside were some little nibs of bone. “We recently managed to locate the fingers and toes of your parents; we matched them via DNA, and in the mix, found some of your DNA on them, as well… which led us down a little rabbit-hole, some pretty nasty calls from your cousin, and eventually to you.”

“I’m unsurprised you found my DNA on those,” I muttered, staring blankly at the ceiling. My body was entirely drained of energy. “I believe they both hugged me before they put me to bed the night I died.” I was so shocked when they had died initially, but eventually grew numb to the fact, figuring some jackass carved into ‘em ‘cause they were rich, or maybe because they had a grudge. Who knows. Who cares. Whatever. I caught myself saying that a lot lately, a concerning lot. Maybe it was my way of coping with how shitty my life was turning out to be.

The man’s face was drained entirely of life. He looked like he regretted coming here. “Where did you find them?” I asked. I was curious.

“Strangely enough, by their grave— under their headstone, to be exact. Like somebody had planted them there.”

“It might have been me,” I mused. He was taken aback. “How might that be, sir?”

I shrugged. “I could have been the one who took their fingers and their toes… it’s morbid, I know, but I wasn’t in the right mindspace then at all. I was hysterical. Maybe I saw it as a memento mori. You did arrest me for digging up their grave when I was seventeen.” Not him specifically, but the law enforcement in general. Someone up there. They released me for psychiatric reasons, but had me enrolled in a two-week course at the psych ward. I didn’t blame them. I don’t think any “sane” person digs up their parents’ graves so they can hug them while sucking on their thumb to fall asleep.

I did miss them terribly, then and now.

This was bringing up dreary memories. Damn that cousin. I think I started to cry, because the interrogator offered me a tissue. “Again, I’m really sorry to bother you… maybe I came at a bad time. We’re still investigating but I don’t think we’ll keep the case open for much longer… there just isn’t any motive or evidence for you killing your parents.” I took his tissue, tore it in half, and just laid it under my eyes, letting it absorb the tears until it was a sad wet crumple, and I had to flick it onto the floor.

There really was no motive; I remembered being a pretty fat and happy, so to speak, kid, spoiled, but not in the way I was made ungrateful and cruel. “Well, hope you’re back in good spirits soon, Sam. We probably won’t be contacting you again, at least, not unless something new pops up.” He left. Sam. He’d said that in such a familiar way… I wondered if I’d known him at some point. Whatever.

Half an hour passed exactly; I kept track via the pretty pink princess clock mounted up on the wall directly perpendicular to my cot. On the dot, a nurse walked in in all white. He was very young. I recognised him from somewhere. I didn’t remember where. “Good…. well, I should say morning, Samuel; it’s four A.M. How are you feeling?”

“I’m very tired, and a little nauseous,” I responded, trying to sit up. I couldn’t muster the strength. “I tried to tell the EMTs on the way in, but I don’t think I need to be here… I’ve been like this a lot lately, so I should be just fine.” The nurse kind of laughed at that. “So you should be right here, Samuel, where we can take immediate medical care of you. How long have you been feeling so tired?”

“A few months.”

He went through an entire interrogation of his own, medically, then left, leaving me again in limbo, this time waiting for a doctor. I didn’t want to be there, and after about another hour, I’d really had it… I managed to drag myself out of the cot and stagger down the corridor. Dimly lit with rattling, dated lights hanging from the ceiling, wheelchairs and crutches and random medical devices (I couldn’t give you the names) littering the floor here and there, glowing a little under the moonlight peering in through the front door. The waiting room was full of the homeless and some sad looking cases, coughing into their arms, clutching their pregnant bellies, and so on. A person stopped me by the door and asked if I was a patient; I denied it and claimed I was only visiting a relative; she let me out, and I wandered on my merry way. I wasn’t sure where I was going. I felt pretty aimless, and I didn’t want to go home… I felt an insurmountable frustration as my body started lagging, trying to shut down on me, and no matter how hard I pushed back, my efforts were futile. I ended up passing out, I think, for when I could see again, I was again in the world of the insects, this time in court with my grasshopper lover, defending her innocence. I was a lawyer here, I think.

“She would never resort to such a barbaric thing as murder,” I barked, pacing around the courtroom like I owned the place. “Look at her, just look at her… she’s sobbing just being here; she’s so terribly confused! You people are the criminals, putting such an emotionally vulnerable and hurt young lady in the spotlight, let alone under the pressure of accusations pinning her as a murderer! Have you no shame?”

The court booed me, and I gritted my teeth, realising my jury consisted of ants and worms, insects of my class. They probably saw me as a traitor, defending the likes of a grasshopper. But I loved her, and I believed firmly that our love would help in uniting the fighting castes. “It does not matter that she is a grasshopper… she is still a victim, and I hereby do not feel, but rather believe, and declare, that she is innocent!”

For whatever reason (it was a dream, after all), the court found that a just fine argument, and the booing turned into a lauded applause, the audience rising from their seats and whistling, hooting, cheering… the judge, a praying mantis, banged her gavel and declared the grasshopper innocent; she gasped and hugged me, kissing me all over. She morphed, in my dream… she was no longer a grasshopper; she was now Sally. Sally was kissing me, and I was a man again; even through the distorted vision of my dream, I could tell I looked as fine as ever, restored and without boils on my chest.

“Oh, Samuel, I just love you,” she crooned. She was naked, I deducted, and she was all horned-up, spinning all over me like a spider about to wrap its fly in a web. “Have I told you that before?” She nuzzled her nose into my cheek; if she were a cat, she would’ve purred. “You have,” I said in a sloppy-sweet kind of voice, rolling so I was on top of her. “Oh, no, Samuel,” she chided, making a tsk tsk tsk noise and wagging her finger.

“Go lower.” I backed off her face and pushed her against the pillow, face-to-crown now. But I was not greeted by genitalia. I was greeted by a pulsating crust, and a peculiar smell, like a cheap, too-sweet “fall” scented dollar store candle. I wrinkled my nose. “Come on, Samuel; I’m dying up here,” she lilted, rubbing my hair with her hands. Sweat started to accumulate on my lip and brow as I slowly looked over at her hands. They were dry and inhuman, a shape I cannot describe to you. I stared back at where her genitalia should have been, and flinched, but could not draw back, as stinkbugs started to crawl from that gaping hole… one after one after one, until an army had accumulated and were all that I could see as I looked down and around the room.

They swarmed everything but Sally and me; I could hear so faintly their scuttling as they climbed over one another on the floor, crawled underneath the furniture, hid behind the wall hangings… I looked down at my knees and yelped as they crawled up my legs and to my privates. “Sally, you’ve got a stinkbug pussy,” I said with a quiver to my voice, batting them away before they could make it so far. They stunk, and stunk, and stunk. I wanted to feel bad for them but was too taken by terror to do so. “Sally, please wake me up. I know I never went to the hospital, I know this isn’t real, hell, I even know I didn’t go to work today. I know I’m still sleeping, Sally. Please wake me up.”

“Who says you’re dreaming, baby?” Sally asked, covering up then making a 180 to face me. Sally was not Sally, Samuel’s deadbeat wife, anymore. Sally was a stinkbug. Sally had a stinkbug pussy. Stinkbugs don’t crawl out of women’s vaginas in the real world, and wives don’t become stinkbugs, either. Sally still had Sally’s body, but her face was pure stinkbug. All the tiny stinkbugs were gone, now. Sally was Sally again. Sally’s face was normal again. I breathed a sigh of relief. She looked concerned. “Aw, baby, you okay? I know this is your first time— you don’t have to, if you don’t wanna.”

“No—” I didn’t want to sound dumb. You had a stinkbug pussy. Yeah, that sounded dumb. “—no, I’m happy to, Sally— here, lay down again, I’ll try again. Sorry; I…” I shook my head. “I zoned out for a moment there.” So again, Sally had her fingers in my hair, cackling as I went down on her… I froze solid when she spoke. “C’mon, baby. I know you wanna bite off this stinkbug pussy.”

I woke up. I thought I’d woken up before, but I hadn’t. I had never gone down on Sally, not yet. I was still a virgin, surprisingly. Sally had a pretty healthy sexual appetite, but I could never get it up— she respected that, and she never tried to pressure me. Sally was a deadbeat wife, but I had myself to blame for that. Otherwise, Sally was a pretty nice person— respectful, considerate, polite… she hadn’t really wanted to marry me, but did it anyways because she was trying to get relatives out of her hair over the whole “you’re nearing thirty; you don’t wanna be an old maid, do you?” thing. We’d been friends in high school, and had agreed to marry if we didn’t find anyone by the age of thirty… so we did just that. A lot of people thought Sally married me for the inheritance; I even got some questions about that, to which the answer was always no, and, that’s a kind of sexist way of thinking.

I woke up, but now I had to deduce where I had woken up. I certainly wasn’t in the hospital; I was surrounded by dirt… a stinkbug crawled on me and I flicked it off. The dirt reeked of stinkbugs. No wonder I’d dreamt with them involved. I was holding something. What was it? It was too dark to tell, but I had a flashlight shining on me to help.

I had a flashlight shining on me to help.

Oh, Lord. That certainly wasn’t me.

“Christ on a crutch,” said the voice of a stranger, and I tensed up as I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked over to where the flashlight shone, and stifled an outburst. I was holding a skeleton. No flesh, no meat. Long rotted away. I recalled the interrogator from earlier. At some point, I’d held my parents’ skeletons. Maybe I’d regressed. Maybe I was doing that again.

I was a dead weight but they still managed to pull me from the hole— as soon as they did, my eyes rolled back and I unwillingly was siphoned into a dream again. I don’t think I fell asleep. I think I passed out, but I still dreamt.

“You were so sweet to defend me in court,” the grasshopper gushed, hugging me tightly. “Do you think we should marry?”

“I want to marry you with a clear conscience,” I replied, looking her dead in the eye. “You weren’t lying in court, were you? You really did not kill your husband, right?”

“Of course I did, baby,” she cooed, her sweetness almost drowning out the weight of her words. “How else could I be with the man of my dreams? Oh— don’t look at me like that; you know we’re soulmates… the second I laid eyes on you, I just knew you were the one. Come on,” she stroked my cheek. “Come on, baby, it’s not so bad. That cricket… that damn cricket had to die. The police are off my tail, and if we marry in… a few months, it’ll look even less suspicious… besides, why do you care anyways? It’s just a cricket.”

“You still took a life,” I retorted, this awful, nauseous feeling rising in my gut. “I mean— how can you do it with a smile? How can you feel absolutely no remorse?”

“Because I didn’t do it for me, sweetheart. I did it for us… and the price of a life of one is most definitely worth the price of happiness for two.”

I felt all the more nauseous. “But.” She winked. “For the sake of argument, and so you don’t feel so bad about it… let’s say I didn’t… in fact, how about you forget all about this… and we go live on our happy little lives.”

The nauseous feeling came to a boil, and I vomited— quite literally; I woke up with bile oozing from my mouth, and some guy rushing to help me with a bucket, sitting me up and holding it under me. In the room, there was some woman pacing around, a hand scrunched up against her forehead and some twisted expression on her face— “This is a real mess, Saul,” she exclaimed. She had a Boston dialect. “This is a real fucking mess… you mean to tell me the fucker’s been in the dirt with mommy and daddy this whole time?”

“Not the whole time,” said another voice, some guy. “He made it through trial and questioning, but we ain’t seen him since, letting this guy loophole his way in… it’s been so many years now, it ain’t no wonder he got away with it for so long.” I retched again, and again, the same person held me over the bucket, patting me on the back. “You’re makin’ me sick, Seb,” she called to the person assisting me. “How you gonna help that guy when he’s a fuckin’ serial killer?”

“You ain’t a damn shrink,” replied Seb. My mind was rushing to fit together the pieces of the puzzle, but it was exhausted. So exhausted. “Guy’s off his fuckin’ nuts.”

“What’s the wife gotta say about all this?”

“She don’t got nothin’ to do with it, far as I’m concerned. They hadn’t seen each other since high school, an’ they kinda look like each other, so with age, I don’t blame her for thinkin’ it was him.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” the woman muttered. “I’m gonna go get the fuckin’ lawyer waitin’ out here, you read him his rights an’ get him cleaned up some.”

Before she left, she called back, “An’ it’s a good fuckin’ thing that damn relative stuck his dick in the puddin’; the wife coulda ended up next!”

The guy cleaning me up— Seb— muttered something incomprehensible, wiping residue off my mouth and my body, combing his fingers through my hair. “C’mon, buddy, let’s get you straightened out… lawyer’s waiting to talk to you, your wife didn’t wanna get involved.”

“I don’t think I have a wife,” I mumbled, awkwardly patting at the air. I wanted to be in that musty basement again, picking up call after call after call. It was boring, but it was safe. Nice and cozy. Warm. Comfortable. I felt like I was under a heap of blankets, falling asleep so peacefully, like a bear entering hibernation. “I have a grasshopper and she is so pretty; she wears frilly pink dresses and cotton candy in her hair.”

Seb said something but I honestly didn’t listen, too far into my comfortable sleep… a nice, quiet place of retreat, where I didn’t have to face the “real” world, whatever that even was at this point.

Two cockroaches skittered across the floor and collided… they were fighting in my bathroom, over a grubby crumb on the filthy floor. The one managed to somehow kill the other, and began to nibble away at its body.

The bathtub was filled with a muddy, murky water that stunk of rust, and the linoleum floor peeled off in the corners. The sink was encrusted with grout and its pipes were rusty; the toilet bowl housed a drowned rat that’d gotten stuck when someone tried to flush it down. The shower curtains were covered in suspicious stains, and I think there was a corpse in the midst of the murky water, its face beautiful above the water but its body bloated, a hand erect in the air missing fingers.

The toothpaste tubes and the toothbrush and the soap all had some film or stain on them, looking like they’d do the opposite of clean jack shit.

I was in front of my dirty mirror again, picking at my chest… this time another man entered the bathroom and walked up behind me, embracing me from behind and placing kisses on my ear. He was so beautiful, and his face matched the vague image I had of the one in the tub. I couldn’t tell you who he was, no matter how hard I tried. All I remember is that he kissed me from my neck to my cheek, then whispered in my ear,

“I heard your wife has a stinkbug pussy.”

#stinkbugpussy #horror #surrealhorror #mystery

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