Book II 十一 Part 11 (Village)

Illustration by K. Ryan

Shichi had hoped once Gin was safe in their company, the dreams would stop. This hope was dashed as he drifted off into a series of bitter, lonely memories that kept him tossing through the night. It seemed being closer to the nekomata only intensified the dreams, ensuring a restless sleep for the monk.

Unfortunately, his cat-related issues did not end in the morning.

“Ah! Aah!” came a cry from the other end of the room, startling the monk into consciousness. The moment he opened his eyes, Shichi wished he hadn’t.

Gin had, unfortunately, woken before him. The cat had staggered into a state of panic, unsure of where he was or why his leg was in so much pain. He made a poor attempt at fleeing, only bumping his body before toppling down. There was a clattering as a cup fell from the low table, spilling cold tea onto the tatami.

“Gin!” Shichi said, holding up both hands. “Don’t move.”

“You,” the nekomata replied, his eyes snapping into a glare. “You kidnapped me! I— I won’t let you. You can’t keep me here.”

“Nobody kidnapped you, Gin.”

“Yeah,” Chiyo said, rubbing a hand over her glazed eyes. “Who’d want a dirty old cat?”

“I’m not old.”

“You somehow managed to break your leg by the river,” Chiyo said, then jerked her thumb towards the monk. “Then this idiot insisted on fixing you up and bringing you along. I told him not to.”

“Somehow? You broke my leg,” Gin hissed.

“Nice try, Chiyo,” Shichi said. “He remembers.”

The kitsune shrugged, already weary of their conversation. Her attention shifted to their travel bag, nosing inside for some breakfast.

“You’re welcome to leave, Gin,” Shichi said. “But you may have trouble walking. I think it would be best if you stayed with us until you’re healed.”

“I don’t need your help,” the nekomata said with a sneer. “And once I’m healed I’m definitely going kill you.”

As he spoke, Gin made another attempt at standing. He winced, lifting his injured leg before hobbling towards the door.

“And don’t think you can—“

Once again, the cat collapsed to the floor, this time crumpling on top of his own splint. “Argh!”

“You really shouldn’t be moving so much,” Shichi said, reaching forward to help the cat up. Gin swatted at his hand with full claws, forcing the monk to recoil.

This was going to be more difficult than Shichi had thought.

As Gin pulled himself upright, he took notice of his own body — his coat had been thoroughly cleaned, showing no trace of dirt or muck in his fur. He paused for a moment, glancing from his body back to the comb left on the table. The cat snorted once, then dejectedly settled back onto the floor.

Shichi let out a small breath of relief. Gin may have been able to manage three-legged walking, but the bone would surely have been slower to heal. In addition, he suspected that spending some time with the cat would help them understand one another and, with any luck, come to some kind of peace.

“We have plenty to eat,” Shichi said, looking to the bag between Chiyo’s paws. “Why don’t you—“

“No,” Chiyo and Gin said at once, both yokai narrowing their eyes at the monk.

“It’s bad enough I have to carry him — do we have to give him our food, too?” Chiyo protested.

“You— you carried me?”

“Yes,” the kitsune replied with as much disgust as she could gather. The two took a moment to consider one another, then shuddered simultaneously.

“Ugh,” they groaned, turning away from each other.

Shichi closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was a good thing he had experience with children.

#

Somehow, Shichi managed to get the two back on the road without another fight. The group looked rather odd — a monk carrying an enormous egg and a scowling woman with an injured, fork-tailed cat. If he hadn’t been so exhausted, Shichi might have laughed at the thought.

“Watch it, lady,” Gin said with an expression mirroring Chiyo’s. “Don’t drop me.”

“It must be nice being carried all the time,” she muttered, adjusting her hold on the cat. Shichi immediately narrowed his eyes at her.

“What?” she asked with an innocent raise of her brow.

Shichi only glared harder.

“What?” Chiyo repeated.

Their exchange was interrupted by the clank of a guard’s polearm.

“Sorry, there’s no passage through here,” the man said as they approached. The road had been barricaded with a rope, preventing any travelers from continuing.

“Then how are we supposed to get through?” Chiyo asked, her features twitching with impatience.

“You’ll have to head back to the main road and take another way.”

“But that’ll add a whole day to our trip! What is it — did a tree fall or something? We can climb a tree.”

“The village ahead has some kind of plague. You’re welcome to take the risk if you’re in a hurry.”

Chiyo stiffened, then took a slow step back.

“Ah, no. That’s fine. That’s just fine. We’ll—“

She paused as the monk stepped forward, carefully making his way over the rope.

“Shichi, no,” Chiyo begged as dread began to fill her chest. “Stop!”

He ignored her, only continuing past the guard.

“You come back right now!”

Again, he made no reply. The kitsune began to fret as the monk’s form grew smaller down the road.

“What is he doing?” Gin whispered.

“Being Shichi,” she replied, deadpanned. Chiyo glanced up and down the road, shifting her weight from one foot to another before finally rushing forward.

“Wait! We’re coming!”

Shichi glanced sideways as Chiyo jogged up to his side, a thoroughly jostled cat in her hold.

“Maybe you two should stay here. I don’t know what kind of sickness it is.”

“We’re not staying here.”

Gin looked uneasy, his eyes locked on the empty path ahead. “Um, let’s listen to—“

“No. You can’t leave this idiot alone for two seconds before he gets attacked by something or falls into a ditch or—”

“All right, all right,” Shichi said, shaking his head. “But you’ll need to be careful. Don’t make contact with any of the villagers.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Chiyo replied, making a face.

Even before seeing the residents, Shichi could see something was off in the village. A gray mist hung low to the ground, lurking between homes and shops. No children could be heard playing, nor were there any craftsmen selling their wares. The streets were empty. The rings on Shichi’s staff chimed softly as he walked — the only sound in the lifeless town.

“Where is everyone?” Chiyo asked, the hairs on the back of her neck rising.

Shichi’s eyes drew over the surrounding structures. They were well-kept, yet lifeless. The doors had all been shut and not a single window was open to let in the air. It was just as well — the mist carried a strange scent, one of old iron and rot.

Down the road, past an old shrine and a well, Shichi noticed a shift of movement. His pace quickened and the silhouette froze at the sound of his approach.

“Hello?” he asked, peering through the mist at the figure of a woman.

“Who are you?” she asked, her eyes wide at the fight of two strangers. She appeared to be a teenager, her yukata dull and unwashed.

“We were just—“

“You should leave this village,” she interrupted. “Or you’ll get sick, too.”

“Actually, I’m a doctor,” Shichi explained. “I wanted to see if I could help.”

“A doctor?” she repeated, her expression brightening. “That’s—“

Her mouth hung open, forgetting the end of her sentence. The light in her eyes faded just as quickly as it had appeared and the girl looked away, her voice softening.

“You’re not the first. Medicine doesn’t help — nothing helps. This village is cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“It’s not worth the trouble,” she murmured, her dark hair falling over her face.

“It’s no trouble,” he replied, shaking his head. “Please, let me see what I can do.”

At first, the girl said nothing, only gazing quietly at the doctor. After a moment, her head tilted. She furrowed her brow, wondering if his eye color was a trick of the light. Realizing what had caught her attention, Shichi hurried to tug down his hat, once more covering his eyes in shadow. He unconsciously cleared his throat, wishing he hadn’t been so careless.

“You can try if you want to,” the girl replied after the silence lifted. “But don’t expect to succeed.”

Shichi nodded, grateful for the mere opportunity. “I understand.”

“This way.”

He and Chiyo exchanged looks before following the girl into the large house behind them. An old cypress tree grew alongside the structure, its roots tangling into the stone of the well. As the doors slid open the smell of sickness grew stronger — a fog of decay and perspiration. Shichi struggled to keep his hands from his nose, not wanting to offend their host.

“My father runs this village,” she explained as she led them inside. “He invited many of the sick to our home. We’re doing our best to care for them.”

The girl gestured to the main room, where dozens of villagers lay on thin mats in rows. There were young and old alike, their eyes sunken and their hair matted. A square hearth lay in the center of the room, the faint light of the fire casting a deceptively warm glow on their skin.

“Chiyo,” Shichi started, passing the kitsune the egg.

“Got it,” she replied, wasting no time backing out. The door closed behind her with a clack. Shichi was glad she complied. He was experienced in impeding the spread of disease — she was not.

“My name is Shichi. May I ask yours?” he said, removing his hat. The room seemed dim enough obscure his aberrant features.

“Izumi.”

“Izumi,” he repeated, kneeling beside an elderly man. “When did this start?”

“Weeks ago, right after grandfather’s funeral. We all grew sick — everyone. Some are taking it harder than others.”

“You, as well?” Shichi asked as he took the sleeping man’s pulse.

“Yes. There’s always a pain in my stomach — here,” she said, placing a hand over her belly. “Some days its worse than others. But I have enough strength to get by.”

“Did anything — ah, anyone new come to the village? Before this started?”

“No one. A moryo interrupted the funeral, but Father chased it away.”

Shichi paused. A moryo — they were yokai, just as he was. They had the unfortunate reputation of eating dead flesh, often attracted to funeral services as they attempted to run off with the corpse. It seemed, however, the hungry yokai was long gone.

For the next hour, Shichi went from one patient to another. He checked their vitals and symptoms, noticing similar ailments among them all — nausea, diarrhea, and the same terrible pain in the abdomen Izumi had described. The room was unbearably stale, with a rank humidity hanging in the air. He pushed himself to continue working; there was no time to dither.

“It seems like a stomach inflammation,” he murmured, wiping his hands with a cloth. “But it usually goes away on its own.”

Shichi’s eyes fell to the swollen feet of the woman at his side, wondering what had caused the buildup of fluid.

“How odd.”

“I told you, it’s not a normal sickness. It’s a curse,” Izumi said, her head low.

“There has to be more to it,” he replied, shaking his head. Despite having lived in an inn full of monsters and spirits for months, he knew the answer wasn’t so plain. There was an explanation somewhere — he simply had to find it.

Though Shichi was unsure of the cause, he was quite clear of the symptoms. These weren’t difficult to treat, though he didn’t have quite enough ginger for the entire village. He began to work with what he had — the few herbs he had purchased from the medicine shop along with whatever was on hand.

“Izumi, do you have—“

Shichi’s voice was cut off by the front door. It slid open, allowing in an older man with stark white hair.

“Father, you’re back,” the girl said, setting aside a stack of blankets.

“Who is that?” the man said, ignoring her greeting as his eyes locked on Shichi. He looked to be in better condition than the other villagers, though age had not taken him kindly. His spine was hunched, forcing his head down as he glared at the stranger in his home.

“He’s a doctor,” Izumi explained, approaching to take the buckets of water he had brought. “He’s trying to—“

“Tell him it’s no use. He’s wasting his time.”

“He seems skilled, Father. We should let him try.”

The man scoffed, only rubbing his shoulder as he was relieved of his heavy load. His clothes were dingy and clung in sweaty patches to his back.

“Pardon my intrusion,” Shichi said, standing to greet the man. “Would you mind if I examined you?”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly.

“But I—“

“I don’t need a— a stranger examining me. I’m fine,” he said, waving the request off with a wrinkled hand before trudging up the stairs. Shichi sighed.

“I’m sorry for his behavior,” Izumi said, momentarily closing her eyes.

“It’s all right. He must be feeling a lot of pressure.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “He’s been this way ever since the sickness came. Normally he’s — he’s quite kind.”

Shichi forced himself to look away from the stairs, returning his attention to the task at hand. One stubborn patient didn’t mean he couldn’t tend the rest of them.

“As I was saying,” he said, picking up a wooden pestle. “Do you happen to have any ginger?”

Soon, he had prepared a mass amount of herbs. He had never treated such a number of patients before and found himself growing dazed as he moved from one ailing villager to another. A young man groaned beside him, clutching his abdomen in a show of agony.

“I’ll be right there,” Shichi said, easing a boy down onto his back. As he opened his needle box, he could hear another person retching from the other side of the room — apparently they had been unable to keep the medicine down. Sweat beaded on his temples as he tried to calm the man beneath his hands. The air was starting to get to him.

“Please don’t move,” he explained, though the man didn’t seem to hear. He made another moan, shuddering beneath Shichi’s flattened palm.

“It’s all right,” he continued, focusing on keeping his voice calm. “This will ease the pain, but only if you can lie still. Just breathe.”

After a few shallow gasps, the villager managed to ease his cringes. He opened his eyes, looking up at the doctor with as much trust as he could bear.

“Good,” Shichi said, pressing the first needle in at a precise angle. With practiced movements, he followed with the second, then the third. His patient exhaled, his eyelids fluttering as they closed. After a few minutes, his breathing fell even. The pain slipped from his mind, allowing him to weaken into the floor mat.

“It worked,” Izumi said from behind him, not hiding the surprise in her tone.

“He should be able to rest now,” Shichi said with a light nod.

“Will it cure him?”

“I’m afraid not. I only treated the pain, not the cause,” he answered. “But don’t worry. I won’t rest until we find it.”

Izumi only looked away, her eyes falling on the dying hearth. Shichi knew what she was thinking — that there was no helping it — that nothing could cure the evil that had been thrust onto the village. He didn’t push the matter, only steadying himself to stand.

“I need to check on my companion. Will you be all right?”

“Of course,” she said, holding up a bowl of weak rice porridge — it seemed to be more liquid than not. “Share this with her. We don’t have much food, but—“

“I understand,” he said, accepting the bowl with both hands. “We’re quite grateful.”

Chiyo and Gin had taken refuge in the small shrine in the center of the village. Chiyo looked decidedly improper as she lounged in her human form among the kitsune statues, slumping on the altar as if it were a throne. She idly picked up an old offering of a rice ball, sniffing it before tossing it aside.

“No wonder this town is plagued. Their offerings are terrible,” she muttered.

“At least kitsune get offerings,” Gin said, sitting on the other side of the small structure and as far from Chiyo as possible. “Nobody cares about nekomata.”

“That’s because you terrorize people and eat them.”

“I-I don’t eat people,” the cat protested, his twin tails flicking in annoyance.

“You tried to eat Shichi.”

“I wasn’t going to eat him, just kill him a little.”

“How sweet of you,” came a voice from the entrance. Both yokai glanced towards the door to see Shichi standing in the threshold with a bowl.

“Oh, you’re done already?” Chiyo said, not bothering to sit upright.

“Not quite. I still have a lot of work to do,” he said, shaking his head. “How are you two doing?”

“Bored,” Chiyo said, examining a piece of stale tofu before tossing it aside as well.

“Please don’t make a mess in here,” Shichi said, setting the bowl on a low table. “These people have enough trouble, as it is.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Chiyo said, not bothering to look at him. “So they won’t notice if a few things are out of place.”

“Chiyo…”

“All right, all right.”

“Thank you. I brought some food if you’re hungry,” Shichi said, gesturing to the bowl. “I’ll check back with you in the morning.”

“The morning?” Gin whined. “I have to sit here with her all night?”

“You can join me in the house, if you like.”

Gin’s tails flopped harder. He glared at the monk before curling up into an agitated ball.

“Very well,” Shichi said. He turned to leave, then paused halfway out. “Oh, and be nice to each other. Please.”

A moment later, he was gone, leaving the two to continue feeling sorry for themselves. The little shrine was silent for a moment before Chiyo glanced at the bowl of porridge.

“Are you going to eat that?” she asked warily.

“No,” Gin muttered into his own fur. “I don’t trust human food.”

“Well, I’m not eating it. It smells funny.”

“You think everything here smells funny,” Gin said with a sneer.

“Yeah. Including you.”

Gin’s grumbling was muffled by his own fur. “I’m telling him you said that.”

The moment he returned to the house, Shichi set to work on another batch of ginger tea. The air around the hearth seemed to tremble, blurring beneath the rising steam. Even after opening the windows, the room remained stifling. He shook his head, realizing he had yet to eat or drink anything. He tilted the lacquered water jug, yet only a single drop fell into the cup in his hand.

“Izumi,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the girl. “Would you mind fetching some more water?”

“That’s my job,” came a gruff voice across the room. Izumi’s father was halfway down the stairs, once again glowering at the doctor.

“Father, I can—“

“I’m not so old that I can’t work anymore,” he interrupted, lifting a wooden staff with two buckets. Without waiting for a response, he left the house, slamming the door shut behind him.

The house was silent but for the crackling of the fire. Shichi turned back to the last pot of tea, filling a cup with the strongly scented drink. His eyes fell, losing focus as he gazed at the light reflecting from the surface. As difficult as it was, he had to keep trying. He had promised himself he would never stop again.

Just as he began to grow lost in the reddish swirl of the liquid, his eyes caught a sliver of white. Squinting, he tilted the cup, noticing the shape move inside. After a moment of staring, he took a thin chopstick, poking through the tea before finally catching the peculiar shape on the tip. The moment he lifted his hand, it was quite clear what he was looking at.

It was a hair — a white hair.

It must have belonged to the girl’s father. He was the one who fetched the water, after all. Yet, somehow, it didn’t seem fresh. The hair was frayed and smudged, looking as if it had been dragged through the dirt.

Shichi set the cup down, glancing sideways towards the door.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he explained, taking a small lantern as he went. Izumi gave a nod, keeping her attention on the villager in her care.

Night had fallen, leaving the quiet village swathed in black. Shichi’s eyes adjusted slowly as he made his way past the cypress tree. Though the lamp was weak, the moon was full, giving him just enough light to guide him to the well. Unfortunately, the man was nowhere to be seen. Shichi lifted his arm, allowing the lamp to cast light over the trees nearby. Only darkness greeted him, leaving the monk puzzled in his place.

Warily, he turned towards the well. It was of simple construction, made of stone slabs and covered with a sloped wooden shade. Weeds grew rampant around the base, clinging between the cracks like veins. He took a step closer, ignoring the chill running up his back. The evening was growing cold.

Hooking the lantern on the pulley, he dragged the round cover from the lip of the well. A putrid smell burst forth, forcing him to stagger back in a coughing fit. It was worse than the rest of the town — worse than the house. It was the smell of contamination — of filth and feces.

Something was definitely wrong with the well water.

He shook his head, screwing his eyes shut as he attempted to ignore the festering air. With a hand clamped over his mouth, he moved back to the edge of the well to peer inside. All he could see was darkness. It was a deep well, deeper than any he had seen before. There was only one way to get a look at the bottom.

Unhooking the small lantern, he held it over the rim of the well before letting it drop from his fingers. A ring of light swept down the stone walls as it fell. Shichi narrowed his eyes, watching carefully until the moment it hit the bottom with a faint spatter. The flame fizzled, then was swallowed by the murk below.

Shichi’s next breath cut into him like a blade down his throat. He stumbled away from the well, his hand clenching more tightly over his mouth. What he had seen — it couldn’t have been — but no, it was. There was nothing else it could be. The bloated limbs, the strings of floating white hair — it was a human.

A corpse.

The water — everyone was drinking the—

“So, you found my body.”

Shichi nearly jumped at the voice, twisting towards the figure at his back. It was Izumi’s father, a wooden bucket in each of his hands.

“Your— your body?” Shichi asked, taking a step backwards.

“He chased me all the way to the well,” he said, his voice growing scratchier. He set down the buckets. “I didn’t mean for him to fall inside.”

The monk swallowed, fighting the shiver that longed to run up his spine.

“It’s you,” Shichi said. “The moryo.”

The man grinned, his lips peeling back over his teeth. His body hunched further, lower, his skin tight and red over his bones. His stare intensified, his eyes burning crimson through the darkness. Black hair began to sprout from his head, slivering down over his features until it dragged behind him on the ground. He was small now — tiny, like a child.

“At first I was upset,” he explained, peeking through strands of hair. “Couldn’t reach that— that delicious body.”

The moryo took a step closer, his feet scuffling the dirt path.

“But then?” Shichi asked, his eyes flickering from one direction to another.

“Then? Then, hah, I noticed the water. Making everyone sick. Soon— soon there’d be plenty of bodies. Plenty for me to eat,” he said, parting his lips to run a tongue over his pointed teeth. Shichi took another step backwards — the rim of the well bumped his waist.

“But now,” the moryo continued. “Now you know. You’re going to tell them, aren’t you?”

“They were bound to find out,” Shichi said, his hands gripping the well’s edge. “There’s still time. No one will hurt you if you leave now.”

The moryo made a raspy snicker, taking another step closer.

“It’s a shame,” he said.

“What— what’s a shame?” Shichi asked.

“I won’t be able to eat your body, either.”

With that, the moryo’s small, sinewy arms found the monk’s chest. He grasped his robe with dirt-caked nails, toppling him over the rim of the well. Shichi plummeted down the shaft, putrid air whipping past his face until he hit the foul water with a splash.

He broke the surface gagging, grasping to the stone wall with wet, trembling fingers. His head whipped back, looking up just in time to see the lid sliding back over the opening of the well.

“No,” he said, choking, his heart thrashing inside his chest. “No!”

The moonlight was a crescent, eclipsing into a sliver — thinner, and thinner, until it was gone.