“Get up.”
“Ugh.” Kengo rolled over and
pressed his face between the futon and the tatami floor. “What…time is it?” Rai, an
unwanted—and early—alarm clock. Mercifully, he hadn’t dreamed about the match
last night. In fact, he’d almost forgotten it until now..,
Rai sniffed. “We have a guest.” He
nudged Kengo with his foot. “Come on. Up.”
Why must this man torment him so? Was
not a one-sided squash victory enough—now he must intrude on his sleep? Kengo
pressed his nose against the paper wall. It was drafty, being that indecisive
time between spring and summer when the weather couldn’t decide what it wanted
to be on any given day, and the temple quarters were not modernized for climate
control. Which is all to say that Kengo was chilly and the covering was warm,
and he had no desire to commence his morning ablutions two hours before he was
expected to tend to his temple duties (mostly sweeping).
“The Reverend didn’t say anything
about visitors today,” Kengo yawned, stretching his giant arms towards the
ceiling. “Besides the tourists and the usual old folks, that is.”
“It’s a surprise guest.” Rai looked
down at this feet, and Kengo knew then he wasn’t thrilled to be up this early
either. He already had his robes on. “Probably a tourist. He’s foreign.”
“I’m shy around foreigners,” Kengro
grumbled. Well, everyone else for that matter. “And…I’m tired.”
“Do you know who doesn’t get shy or
tired? The spirits. Now, get up before I elbow drop you!”
He was serious, Kengo knew. “The
spirits definitely get shy,” he said. He waved Rai away, not wanting
him to see him in his underwear. “Fine. See? Up. Let me get dressed.”
He wasn’t pleased. No time for
breakfast either it seemed. Kengo donned his ceremonial robes, put on his
sandals, and slumped down the temple’s old, wooden hallways. He generally enjoyed this early part of the morning, when the mist-shrouded sun peaked above the great
pines in the valleys below, glimmering light off the surface of the
waterfall basin. He rarely saw this particular side of the morning, however, because Kengo
enjoyed sleeping even more.
The old smell of incense-soaked
wood filled his nose and somehow made his stomach grumble. There would be time
for food later, he reminded himself. Better give Reverend Ikari what he wanted,
show the visitor around, and then be done with it all as soon as possible.
The cool outdoors were reinvigorating. The air was fresh with the indiscernible scent of the mountains,
which both cradled the temple and loomed behind it as well. Kengo found Rai,
the Reverend, and an unknown third party out in the temple courtyard, beneath
the shade of a blossoming wisteria. Rai tugged on the sleeves of his robes,
looking more irritated than awkward, while the Reverend spoke animatedly with
the rather large man, who was almost the size as Kengo. He was rugged looking,
with kind eyes, and a trimmed beard. Kengo thought he would make a half-decent
sumo on his build alone.
The Reverend nudged his glasses
back onto the bridge of his nose and gestured elegantly with his long sleeve. “Kengo.
Rai. This is Mr. Ronnie Wheeler. He has come a very long way from the country
of Texas.”
Kengo gave the man a long, deep
bow. “A pleasure to meet you.”
The foreigner returned the gesture
(thank goodness he didn’t go for a handshake, Kengo thought). He was dressed in
a long-sleeved flannel and a roughed up pair of jeans, perhaps too informal for
sacred grounds. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Oyama.”
Kengo blinked, thinking he’d
imagined things. “Oh, you speak Japanese.” Languages were one of the rare arts
Kengo excelled at, but he’d preferred not to muster up any English this side
of 9 AM. His eyes happened to fall on the guest’s left arm, which he held with
his right hand. He wondered if he’d injured himself on the way up the trail…
“Kengo, do not be rude,” the Reverend
chided his ward, snapping his attention away from the guest. “Rai, you are more
personable with others so please attend to the other visitors now. Thank you
for helping Mr. Wheeler with his bags. As for you, Kengo, please fetch us tea.” The Reverend
paused and lowered his head while raising his eyebrows. “The good kind of tea.”
Oh, so it’s that kind of visitor. Kengo’s back stiffened and he took
on a soldier’s stance. He must be very important. I don’t see too many
foreigners at the temple.
Kengo thought he saw Mr.
Wheeler—who looked somewhere around his forties—open his mouth to say something,
but the Reverend shooed the temple servant away before he could say anything else.
Kengo was glad for it, as exposure to strangers for too long tended to put him
on edge. He retreated into the temple, heading for the kitchen. This was
perfect timing too, as he could grab a bite to eat while brewing the tea.
Perhaps this morning wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Still, Kengo couldn’t help but
notice a change in the wind. There was a tradition here, of certain spirits
that carried premonitions and omens on the breeze, and Kengo thought he
felt their power speaking to him now. It wasn’t an obvious meaning (no
communication from the spirits ever was) but Kengo sensed it all the same.
Travellers tended to bring either auspicious and ill fortune, and travellers
from a far were always wild cards, carrying with them the energies and powers
of their respective land’s spirits.
Yet, despite the stranger’s sudden
appearance, Kengo did not feel uncomfortable in his presence. On the contrary,
he had felt calm around the man. Kengo didn’t know what it meant though, and
besides that, his stomach grumbled again, willing him towards more earthly
pursuits.
___
Outside the paper door, Kengo
coughed, announcing his presence. He carried a tray of tea in his hand and made
sure not to spill a single drop (this stuff was very expensive). He had never
heard the Reverend, a usually reserved and considerate man, so animated before.
Whoever this Mr. Wheeler was, it was obvious that he wasn’t just some hiker
taking in the serenity of the mountains.
But, 'good tea' meant one thing. It was high quality, yes, but it also had soporific effects as well. You see, the Reverend loved all of humanity, but despised talking with anybody for too long, including beloved guests. After a cup of the 'good' stuff, the Reverend would offer the visitor a nap in the comfortable guest room and then be done with them. It was a tactic that never failed.
“Your brother was one of the finest
men to fight alongside me during the war,” he heard Mr. Wheeler say, in
near-perfect Japanese. “I honor his memory.”
“Thank you,” the Reverend,
silhouetted behind the screen, said in kind.
Kengo had known Ikari for most of
his life—when is own father had passed away at a young age, Ikari fulfilled a similar roll, albeit with less outward affection than his biological father. And in all the time he’d known the man, he had pinpointed his clever manner of
speaking, the turns and twists of his words. Ikari’s voice never betrayed his
inner thoughts, whatever they were.
Sounded like Mr. Wheeler knew this
too. “Something tells me perhaps this is a sore subject?”
“A moment, please, Mr. Wheeler. I
believe I hear our tea outside.”
Kengo gulped, and deliberately fixed
his face to appear as uninterested as possible. Ikari opened the door—Kengo
noticed clear signs of perspiration on his wide, wrinkled brow. Considering
that it was quite chill today, the topic at hand had already taken a visible
toll.
Kengo smiled nervously. Ikari bowed
and took the tea from him, before unceremoniously closing the door shut. Though
Kengo had been dismissed, and did take leave, he did not wander far. Curiosity
compelled him. Having lived all his life inside the temple walls, he knew
how its acoustics worked, where one could stand so that they might
eavesdrop on a conversation without fear of discovery.
Kengo positioned himself behind a
pillar just off to the side of the hallway, well out of sightline, should Ikari
suddenly grow suspicious and throw open the door. Kengo didn’t want to think
about what would happen if he got caught—he’d rather face Rai in the ring
again!
Though muffled, Kengo’s keen ears
made out the conversation. The Reverend perked up again. “I do not mean to be
impolite or express anything other than gratitude, Mr. Wheeler. My brother and
I…were not on the best of terms. Towards the end.”
The pause that followed made
Kengo’s hairs stand up on end and his heart sink. The Reverend was reserved,
but rarely was a question posed that was ever denied an answer. Concerning his
late brother, however, whose picture sat on the altar of the dead right next to
Kengo’s father, the Reverend was always evasive.
The Reverend continued. “I…regret
that we did not make amends before his untimely death. But nothing can be
done about that now. You have been most gracious, and I appreciate the visit
all the same. As a guest, you will be treated well here.”
Mr. Wheeler’s voice was easy to
pick up. He was loud, of course, like all North Americans, but he spoke in a way both
gentle and firm. “I wish I could tell you I was here simply to pass on my
regards, Priest Ikari. But there is another matter.”
“Ah. I sensed as much. Let me see
it. The arm, yes?”
Kengo blinked. This was the
weakness of eavesdropping. He couldn’t see what Mr. Wheeler was showing the
Reverend. But he did remember how the large man had cradled his arm as if in pain.
Whatever the nature of the injury, it didn't sound minor. “May the spirits preserve…” He heard the Reverend say. It was one of this
sect’s unique phrases, tantamount to an oath, a blessing, but was often spoken
as a reaction to something particularly unseemly.
“It does look rather nasty doesn’t it?”
Mr. Wheeler laughed, hollowly.
“It’s a curse.”
“Yes. Sustained during the war.”
“An onmyoji surely did this,”
the Reverend said, speaking of the great exorcists.
“Our ways are very private, Mr. Wheeler, so I cannot disclose much. This is how
we preserve and protect our culture, you must understand. However, there are
two schools of thought when approaching spirits. There are the ways of the Path here—passive, respectful, and honoring the partnership and inextricable ties
between our world and theirs. But not all who call upon the spirits see it that
way. There are those who make spirits their slaves and bid them to do terrible
things. Such was the case during the war with many otherwise good men.”
A curse, Kengo shivered and his heart beat faster. The temple was relatively isolated, and had remained
neutral during the war, and so Kengo had only known the lighter side of dealing with the
spirits.
“Reverend, I am told that there are
ways to lift the curse.”
“There are.” This was followed by
another painfully, drawn out pause that gave Kengo second-hand anxiety. “I
cannot offer any though, I do apologise. My…’glyph’, as you English speakers
call it, does not extend to mending spiritual ills in that particular manner.”
“And what about the hot spring atop
the mountain behind the temple?”
Kengo brought his hands to this
mouth to stifle his yelp. How did a visitor know about the sacred
springs? They were forbidden, and even referring to them was treading on dangerous subject matter.
For a flicker of a moment, Ikari,
patient priest, lost his cool. “Who on Earth told you…” He put the pieces together.
“That b—” but he swallowed his rage, his words, and his betrayal of his
brother’s memory.
Last night, Kengo felt like
shrivelling from embarrassment. But right now, he wanted to sink into the
floorboards. He had heard too much, betrayed the confidence of his teacher and
provider. The spirits would not judge these matters, as the affairs of humans
were beneath them, but on the karmic side of the equation...it certainly didn't do Kengo any favors. He thought of moving his feet, but was overcome with the paranoia that
his footfalls would creak the floorboards and announce his betrayal to everyone
in a ten foot radius.
“My brother,” the Reverend started, in a
quiet, cold tone. “He was a fool. I am sorry to say that aloud. It sets a bad example
to speak ill of the dead, but he had no right to mention this to you. Hopefully then, you understand the gravity of the
spring?”
“I will not doubt your words, and I
know how it must be for someone such as myself to ask to use a sacred site.”
“Nationality has nothing to do with
it, I assure you—you are a beloved guest. We welcome all. It is more so the
issue of the guardian spirit who protects that spring. The Bear King. We do not speak his name,
lest he hear it and come down from the mountain to give us trouble. Suffice to
say, my brother was correct—there was a time when many afflicted persons would bathe in the spring and heal themselves of their ills,
especially those who had been cursed.
“Yet, the war took a great toll on this country, and there was a terrible famine. A local band of hunters got desperate--as good men often do--and killed the spirit’s still-living mate for food.
The spirits have their ways, you must understand. Because the spirit’s mate died and was not given a proper burial, their essence was cut off from their mate, and so they could
not be reunited in their respective plane of existence. Whether or not this is
an eternal ordeal is not for me to know—and I would prefer to remain
optimistic about this matter. Regardless, the guardian spirit…turned. He rages still. And he kills.”
Finally, the Reverend reached the
end of his long warning. “I am sorry, but under no circumstance must anybody be
allowed up to that spring. My brother...even in death he seems to cause me
problems. I am very sorry to deny you, Mr. Wheeler.”
Usually, that would be that—the
Reverend’s word was absolute, near-sacred. But Mr. Wheeler did not know this.
He was an outsider, and for an outsider he was very bold—or as Kengo
suspected, very desperate.
“Look, Reverend,” he began,
patient, but with a wavering in his voice, “I may not understand your faith,
but I do respect it.. And with a humble attitude. I am a man of faith as well. And I accepted my death when I went to war and
fought alongside the people of this great land against the other side, including
a faction of their own kin.
“But I have two kids of my own now,
and a wife, and if I die…” His voice trailed. Kengo thought he heard him
struggle to get the words out. “Look, it’ll affect more lives than just mine. So,
if I’m already a dead man walking, then I have nothing to lose. Send me to this
monstrous bear. I’ll wrestle him and go down swinging!”
Kengo had heard stories of mortal
wrestling the gods, but men and women like that were few and far between. This
Mr. Wheeler was big, probably almost as big as Kengo (and could give him quite the match as well, provided magick and spirits were off the table). But there was just no way he
could take on a raging spirit by himself.
The Reverend knew as much. This was
a terribly uncomfortable position that this guest had put him in, but it was
also entirely understandable. “I…” Ikari did not finish his thoughts. He
deflected. “Let us feed you. We will not discuss this further. Not right now.”
That was Kengo’s queue to move, and
as quietly as possible. He scurried down the corridor on the balls of his feet,
nearly running over Rai, carrying a basket of fresh laundry. His rival frowned,
and went to say something, but Kengo kept on moving, not wanting Rai to see the
tears that had started welling up in his eyes.
___
A lit candle in a dark room. A dull
glow illuminated the photo of a large, smiling man with bright eyes. Curls of
incense obscured his face, the face of Kengo’s departed father preserved in
monochrome photography in a framed portrait on an altar, shared by the other
temple deceased.
Kengo knelt in front of the
portrait and said the appropriate prayers for the dead. Though the spirits of nature mingled among gifted mortals, the dead were much more
elusive, and their world largely unseen. It was for the better. If Kengo’s
father could see him now, he would surely be ashamed.
It was for his father’s glory that
Kengo took up sumo, and from his father’s encouragement did Kengo pursue
spellbreaking. Nearly two decades after his passing, however, Kengo had little
to show for the legacy—being mediocre at sumo and completely useless at
spellbreaking. The spirits surely did not heed him, because—like their mortal kin—they
did not respect him.
And so Kengo sat in ceremonial
position, prostrated in front of the dead, begging for forgiveness that, deep
down, he suspected his father had already granted. And though he was not
capable of hearing the dead, he thought he heard his father telling him he was
being much too hard on himself.
Beneath this ‘knowing’ though,
there was something else—another omen. Kengo felt the presence of something else in
the room, just on the periphery. He was being watched.
Spirits did not enter the spaces of
the dead—this was out of honor and respect. And so, the spirit on the edge of
Kengo’s vision lingered. He did what he had done as a child and did not make direct
eye contact with it. Not at first. Spirits, stray cats, and small animals were
very much the same—easily scared away. One always had to earn their trust. Yet,
if it was temple spirit, then surely this one knew Kengo already.
It turns out, he did indeed know this spirit—sort of. It was the white fox, that useless trickster from last night
who had shown up only to get him defeat! Kengo frowned but resisted the urge to
think negative thoughts and frighten it away.
He spoke to it in the spirit tongue,
the language of the heart—emotions. He took a playful approach, at first. What
do you want now? Was my suffering not enough?
The fox just stared at him with its
glowing eyes. It wasn’t here to encourage his pity.
Very well. I know your kind don't do things in a clear and orderly way. Is it too much to ask for some direction
here? How am I not strong enough for you spirits yet? Am I not big? Look, I
have muscle! I could probably lift this whole temple off its foundations if I
really wanted to!
The spirit fox turned about and
made a nest for itself. It yawned again, just like the night before.
Not impressed, are you? So what, do
you just hate me? Is that it?
An icy sensation ran up Kengo’s
back. He heard something—but not with his ears. It was like someone else
thought had planted itself in his mind. Not the most pleasant of sensations.
You simply have not shown us your
strength.
“What does that mean?” Kengo
shout-whispered to the fox. It immediately turned on its tail and strutted
away. “No! Wait! Ugh.” Kengo turned to the photo of his father on the altar, bowed,
and left the room in pursuit of the wily spirit.
It did not vanish from his view,
which was well within its capabilities, so Kengo took this as a sign that it
was not yet done with him. He followed it down the moonlit corridor, careful
not to make too much noise. It was shortly before midnight, and he preferred
visiting the altar around this time, uncomfortable showing other his grief, preferring privacy.
The fox led him down another bend towards the wing reserved for travellers. It stopped outside Mr. Wheeler’s
door. Kengo made a motion with his hands for the fox not to disturb the
occupant, but then quickly remembered that the guest was unlikely to sense or
see the spirit anyway. In any case, the fox laid down at the door and gave him
a hard, long stare that needed no spiritual translation. What are you waiting
for?
Kengo noticed that the door slightly ajar. It was wrong to spy on a guest, which was arguably worse than
eavesdropping on a private conversation. Still, Kengo was compelled by the
spirit, knowing that it must have led him here for a specific reason. He turned
his head carefully towards the door, and saw the vague outline of Mr. Wheeler, caught
in the moonlight. Blankets covered most of his body but he had kept his arm
uncovered.
Now, Kengo understood. From a few
feet away, it was hard to tell what was wrong with the man’s arm, but the curse
was so pronounced that the discoloration was plain to the naked eye. The poor man's arm was
almost solid purple-black, and covered in a strange array of boils or pustules,
none of which looked like an earthly medical condition. Kengo turned away,
nauseated, and saddened. He couldn’t imagine the pain Mr. Wheeler must be
in, and now his coming to the shrine was abundantly clear. He felt a pang in
his heart for the man's predicament, and he wished that he could so
something to make things right.
Show us your strength.
Kengo looked up, startled by the
emotional suggestion again—it was so potent that it almost did translate into
spoken word. The fox sat up, bowed its head towards Kengo, and then vanished into
the moonlight, leaving the young spellbreaker more confused than ever. He
sniffed, and then slid the door shut to give Mr. Wheeler his privacy.
As Kengo marched back to his
bedroom in the hopes of finding some sleep, his mind wandered back to the
stories he heard of the hot spring, which truly was famous for its curative
(and curse lifting) abilities. The spirit there, Minoru, was said to be a
powerful guardian of the mountain. The Bear King had been a benevolent spirit until the
sin committed against him. The path to the spring, which
Kengo recalled laying somewhere behind a waterfall, had been magickally sealed since the spirit started lashing out. Rai had once made overtures about defeating it in
combat to tame it again, and Ikari had fleetingly mentioned fighting being a viable
method against cantankerous spirits in the past, but had spoken no more on this subject.
Such a bully move, Rai, Kengo thought as he crawled into
bed and stared out the window in his little room. From his vantage point, he
could see out onto the mountain. It was clear night, with the near-full moon
hung like a pearl in the sky, and somewhere beneath that silver light was the
answer to Mr. Wheeler’s prayers. Only, with a very angry bear spirit between
him and his goals.
The image of the white fox returned to the
forefront of Kengo’s mind, of his own volition, not the intervention of the
unseen. He had tended to the fox spirits around the forest for years, earning
their trust. So, when it came time to ask them to provide him with a magatama,
they offered no resistance. He was surprised at their generosity. But foxes
were also cunning tricksters, so perhaps it was in their nature to deceive as
part of their prank.
Then again, it didn’t make sense. Why would the fox spirit
return to him tonight? It must have been watching him. Maybe it knew something about
the spring and Mr. Wheeler. Maybe it had taken pity on the cursed human and
wanted to help—though Kengo doubted he himself was the one to facilitate this
spiritual assistance.
No. No more doubt, Kengo thought. It
was getting him nowhere.
Come to think of it, Kengo had
never really had any issues with the spirits before. Only when he questioned
himself did they seem to detect imbalance and flee. Just like last night
when the fox disregarded him.
Show us your strength.
“Maybe not physical strength?”
Kengo said out loud, perhaps in the hopes some divine force was still listening
in on him. “Heh. Or maybe I should just walk up to the bear spirit and just ask him
nicely.”
From somewhere far away, he thought
he heard a low, echoing roar.
He swallowed. Though deeply afraid,
an idea was formulating. It was a risky move. Well, it was a flat out stupid
move, but considering his spellbreaking career wasn’t exactly taking off any
time soon, perhaps it was a risk worth taking...
I may not be able to show you
strength. But I think I can be brave…
Next Chapter!
