Book II 八 Part 08 (Miko)

Illustration by K. Ryan

“All right,” said the village elder, holding up both hands as she watched her students. “Try one more time.”

Her pupils, a half-dozen kitsune, took deep breaths before making another attempt at shapeshifting. The group was quite young; not one of them had grown a second tail and several were still children. With ardent focus, they visualized the shape they intended to take — one with two legs instead of four.

“Look!” cried the youngest, gaping at an older boy. “He did it. Taiki did it!”

Every eye turned to the boy, who was indeed standing upright. His face was still decidedly fox-like and his arms ended in paws rather than hands. Even so, he had successfully shifted to a two-legged creature. The boy smirked to himself, folding his newly formed arms across his chest.

“Well done, Taiki,” their instructor said, nodding her head. The other children marveled at him, impressed with his ability. It was only a scuffling from down the hill that could draw their attention away from the boy. Twigs snapped as a final student arrived — one that had missed the majority of the lesson.

“I’m here!” the young fox cried, shaking leaves from her tail as she joined the line. “I’m here. You can start now.”

Their teacher sighed, covering her face with one hand.

“You’re late, Chiyo.”

“She’s always late,” a smaller girl whispered.

“I… I was busy. I didn’t miss much, right?” she asked with an unapologetic grin.

“Taiki got up on two legs,” the girl said, nodding towards the boy. Chiyo made no effort to look, only snorting to herself.

“Well, now that everyone’s here, let’s continue,” their teacher said, holding in another sigh. From the styling of her hair to the wrinkles on her hands, the old woman’s human form was flawless. It was a skill that her students yearned for, longing to someday be as convincing as she. Chiyo cleared her throat, placing a leaf on her forehead before joining the others in concentration.

Her chest filled with a deep breath. Closing her eyes, she attempted to focus. She could imagine it clearly — a human form, one with hands and feet, that could wear clothing and style her hair. Her teacher had advised her to start small, perhaps just a change in her size or fur length. Chiyo, however, was not one to listen. More than anything, she wanted to be human.

“Taiki has hands!” came a voice from her side, snapping her out of concentration. Sure enough, the kitsune had gotten one step closer to his goal. He stretched his fingers, unable to help but look pleased with himself.

“Big deal,” Chiyo muttered. She lowered her head in annoyance, allowing the leaf to flutter to the ground.

“Better than you can do,” Taiki said, still smiling. “You’re the oldest one here and you can’t even change your fur color.”

“Sh-shut up, Taiki!” Chiyo snapped, finally turning to the boy. The fur on her shoulders was rising in agitation.

“You’ve been trying for years,” he continued. “Are you sure you’re not just a regular fox?”

The girl’s pupils shrunk, struck by his words. Her paws scraped the ground as she launched herself at him, knocking him from his two-legged stance. Startled, he lost his form, returning to the shape of a simple fox. The two tumbled over the ground, kicking up dust as she bit at his ears.

“I said shut up!”

“Chiyo, that’s enough!” yelled their instructor. Within seconds she had split the two, holding each kit by the scuff of their necks.

“Let me go!” Chiyo shouted, kicking and struggling against the hold of the older woman.

“You stop it right now,” she replied, her voice firm. “You are older. You should know better than to act this way!”

Once both kitsune had calmed, she set them onto the ground. Taiki shook his head, still dazed from the scuffle. Chiyo’s ears were flat against her head as she glared at her rival. Though her body was still, her fur had remained sharply bristled.

“That’s enough for today,” their elder said, shaking her head. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Murmuring in disappointment, the other kitsune began to disperse. Taiki returned her glare before trotting briskly towards the village. Just as Chiyo began to walk, she was stopped by the woman’s voice.

“Chiyo.”

The young kitsune paused, cringing before glancing backwards.

“Yes?”

“I think you should take a break from these lessons.”

“But— but I’m trying so hard!”

“I know you are. Everyone is,” she replied. “Shifting, however, requires a clear mind. Perhaps you need some time to gather your thoughts.”

“My thoughts are fine!” Chiyo insisted. “It’s Taiki’s fault. He— he keeps distracting me!”

“Chiyo, you know that’s not true.”

“But—“

“Go on home. I’ll speak to your mother later.”

Before the fox could say another word, her mentor had turned to leave. The young girl stood motionless in the clearing, stunned. Before she could blink, fat tears had formed in her eyes. Her gaze dropped to the leaf that had fallen by her feet. For a moment, she stared at it. The stupid leaf — it hadn’t helped at all. Nothing had ever helped.

With bared claws, she crushed it beneath her paw, grinding the green into the dark soil. She took a sharp breath, shaking her head before turning to dart into the forest.

The ground was a blur beneath her legs. There was only one place she could think of going — the same place she always went when she was upset. It was a spot not far from the village and, quite obviously, one she was forbidden from visiting. Rules meant very little to the young kitsune — especially when food was involved.

The shrine was nestled along the foot of the mountain, a gateway to the land of spirits at its peak. Rows of tori lined the mountain path, the red gates seemingly endless as they wound through the forest. Chiyo hurried past them, paying no attention to the dozens of mossy altars. The altar she wanted was only a bit further, tucked beside an old cedar at the top of a stone staircase. It was a common spot for offerings to the goddess Inari — and, of course, her kitsune. Where there were offerings, there was food, and where there was food, there was Chiyo.

She slowed her pace to a crawl, moving around the side of the sacred tree. Her tail sagged as thoughts of failure flashed through her mind — of the other students, so much younger, yet already able to shift — of her mentor giving up on her — of Taiki. What did he know, anyway? She could shift if she wanted to. It was only a matter of bad timing. There wasn’t anything wrong with her.

Or was there?

Ears low, Chiyo crept past the roots beside the altar to see if the humans had left anything good to eat. Though they often left tempting sweets of azuki or fried tofu, there was the occasional villager who thought leaving a bowl of bland rice was a good idea. Hopefully there would be something to lift her mood.

Upon reaching the altar, however, Chiyo froze. Her ears straightened to sharp points as she stared stupidly at the sight before her.

It was a human.

It was then that she remembered why she wasn’t allowed to come near the shrine — humans. There were villagers, laborers, and priests, all coming and going through the sacred grounds. This one, however, was none of these — it was a woman. She was dressed in the clothing of a miko — a shrine maiden, with her long white sleeves draping on the ground where she lay crouched. Her hakama was a brilliant crimson, matching the tori that ran up the mountainside.

Chiyo’s fur stood on end, bristling as she attempted to backpedal behind the tree. Unfortunately, she had moved too late.

“Oh, don’t be scared,” the woman said, her voice gentle. “I won’t hurt you.”

The fox shuddered behind the trunk, peeking out with a single eye at the human.

“It’s okay,” she continued, reaching out a hand. Apparently, this wasn’t convincing enough for the kitsune and she slowly began to shrink back behind the old cedar.

“Hm, maybe you’re hungry. Here, I have a snack,” she said, rustling through a basket before removing a dorayaki. In an instant, the kitsune was at her side. Before the human could say another word, Chiyo snatched the pancake from the her hand. She wasted no time in devouring it, holding it between her paws as she gnawed and swallowed the red bean filling.

The moment it was finished, she looked up expectantly.

“Oh, you want another one?”

Chiyo nearly opened her mouth to answer when she remembered she wasn’t supposed to be interacting with a human in the first place. Perhaps, if she kept silent, she might be able to pass as a regular fox. In lieu of a reply, Chiyo simply tilted her head, hoping that a cute look would earn her another snack.

“Well, these are supposed to be offerings, but you are a fox. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt anyone if I let you have another.”

Chiyo swallowed the second treat even faster than she had the first. The shrine maiden laughed, somehow amused and not revolted.

“You like azuki, don’t you? You’re such a cute thing, it’s quite difficult to say ‘no’ to you,” the miko said, pushing her hair over her shoulder. It was long and straight, the black strands easily reaching her lower back. Chiyo found she liked being complimented, almost as much as she liked being fed. It probably couldn’t hurt to stay just a bit longer.

“Your fur looks so soft. You’re like a little peach,” she continued. “Ah, that’s it. I’ll call you ‘Momo.’ Do you like that name?”

Chiyo did not like that name, but remembered she was supposed to be a normal forest fox — the kind that didn’t respond to questions. Instead, she only snorted.

“You don’t? Well, that’s too bad. I think it suits you,” she said, smiling brightly. “Well, Momo — my name is Shinju. It’s nice to meet you.”

Rather than pay any mind to the human’s introduction, Chiyo instead began to sniff around the basket in search of more food. Her nose led her to the woman’s hands and sleeves, showing that she had very little sense of personal space.

“Still hungry, after two dorayaki? You poor thing, you must be starving. Or greedy, I’m not quite sure,” Shinju said, giggling as the fox’s nose tickled her palm. “All right, just one more.”

Chiyo found herself liking this human more and more. Her voice was soft, like wind chimes, and she smelled of azuki and candles. She had a nice face, for a human, and was giving her plenty of food.

“Aren’t you lonely out here by yourself?” she said. “Well, I don’t mind it either. I was supposed to be practicing the kagura, but I’m not very good at dancing. I practically tripped over myself in front of everyone and, well — you can imagine the rest. I suppose I just need more practice.”

The woman placed her hands on her knees as she spoke, her voice growing slower with each word.

“Oh, Momo. You can’t understand a word I’m saying, can you? I probably look like a crazy person, talking to a fox.”

Chiyo sat upright, watching the human intently. She was, for one of the first times in her life, actually paying attention to what another person was saying.

“Well, that’s all right. It’s nice being with someone who won’t judge me.”

Chiyo lay her head on the miko’s knee, wishing she could respond. It was a curious thing, really, that she was thinking the exact same thing.

#

Without her regular shapeshifting lessons, the kitsune found herself with a great deal of free time. It only took a few more visits to the altar to figure out the miko’s approximate schedule. The human would often come by in the mornings, carrying a basket of food to arrange as offerings. She was always happy to feed the visiting fox and Chiyo was in turn happy to listen.

There were often times that she longed to speak up, to tell the woman her thoughts — that she enjoyed being near her, that she should keep trying, and that she wasn’t alone. Even with words, however, Chiyo had little experience expressing such things. Perhaps it was for the best that she remain silent.

“Momo, I think you’re getting fat,” Shinju said, resting her chin in her hand as she watched the fox eat.

Chiyo sputtered, shaking her head to remove the crumbs that had gathered on her muzzle.

“Don’t be offended. I think fat things are rather cute.”

Chiyo could only glare at her, oblivious to the bit of azuki paste that had remained on the tip of her nose. Shinju, upon noticing the smudge, began to giggle once more. The sound quickly grew into a laugh, until the shrine maiden was barely able to control herself. She sighed as the fit wound down, using the back of her hand to wipe a tear from her eye.

“Oh, Momo. Sometimes I think you really can understand me. I wish it were true. Where do you run off to in the mountains? Are the other foxes as cute as you are?”

‘No,’ Chiyo thought to herself. ‘They are not.’

#

It was a crisp autumn morning when Chiyo found the miko crying. Shinju lay crouched in the usual spot by the altar, her face stained with tears and her eyes terribly swollen. The kitsune crawled into her lap, unable to do anything more to console the grieving woman.

“You came,” Shinju said, sniffling as she ran a hand over the fox’s head. “You always come. I think you might be my only friend, Momo. A fox — my only friend is a fox.”

The miko smiled through her tears, her shoulders shaking with hiccups.

“How pitiable am I?” she said, forcing a laugh. The human took a deep breath, wrapping the fox in her arms as she continued to weep beneath the cedar tree.

#

Chiyo was staring at a leaf. It had been a long time since she had thought of shifting. In the time that she had spent with Shinju, she had realized one thing — the shrine maiden was always giving, yet Chiyo had never returned the favor. Not once had she offered a gift, nor even so much as a comforting word. There was one thing Shinju needed now — a friend. Chiyo had decided that, no matter what it took, she would at least give her that. She would be that friend.

The leaf was mocking her, or at least, it seemed to be. She had failed so often in the past. Not once had she managed to change so much as the color of her fur. Regardless of her mood or how hard she tried, success had continuously evaded her grasp. She wondered if, maybe, it wasn’t a matter of mood. Perhaps it was purpose.

Placing the leaf on her head, she began to concentrate. She visualized the proper form, a human one. She imagined her paws stretching into hands, her spine straightening until she could stand on two legs. She focused and fretted and, as usual, nothing happened.

Chiyo knit her brow, shifting her thoughts elsewhere. She thought of the human, of her voice like wind chimes and the sweetness of her smile. She thought of what their first conversation might be like, of what it might feel like to hold her hand. Her chest filled with air and her eyelids fluttered. She barely noticed as her shoulders lifted, subtly shifting her posture. When she finally opened her eyes, she realized exactly what she was doing.

She was standing upright.

“Ha!” she cried, then immediately lost focus and toppled back down to all fours. Chiyo was too gleeful to care about the leaves crinkling against her fur. She had done it — the first step, anyhow. Her form had still been that of a fox, but she had at least managed to stand on two legs. It was further than she had ever gotten before. Now, there was the simple matter of all that fur.

Repositioning herself, she began to focus once more.

#

Autumn had nearly ended by the time Chiyo reached her goal. She had spent every evening in a clearing outside the village, attempting and failing over and over again. No longer did she allow her failures to set her back. Each mistake taught her a lesson and each lesson was one she made sure to remember. It had returned, once in a while — the creeping feeling of ineptitude, the thought that she should simply give up. It was at those times she remembered the miko and the way her sleeves had looked when stained with tears. Chiyo never wanted her to be unhappy again.

The sun had nearly set when she opened her eyes to a set of hands — slim, beautiful hands with proper fingernails and not a trace of fur. She used them to feel her face, touching over her new nose and nearly poking herself in the eye. Long white hair hung down to her back, its tresses in desperate need of styling. She let out a delighted laugh, quite pleased with herself until she looked down once more. She was naked.

It wasn’t a problem, as a fox. It seemed, however, that humans weren’t often found without clothes. Chiyo wondered what Shinju might think if approached by a nude woman in the woods. Not wanting to find out, she set through the trees to find some clothing.

The obvious source was the shrine. Many humans lived there, including Shinju and the other shrine maidens. Surely there would be something she could ‘borrow.’

Sure enough, the familiar scent of candles reached Chiyo’s nose as she approached the grounds. She had never actually visited the shrine itself, content to take food from the altars on the outskirts. An enormous stone tori rose over the entrance, its pillars towering over the other buildings. Though the sun had set, there seemed to be a ritual of some kind transpiring in the main hall. Light glowed between the building’s slatted windows and not a soul was left outside. Perfect.

Her nose was much weaker in her human form, but it was still enough to lead her to the women’s quarters. The hall was dark and vacant, her barefooted steps making the only sound as she snuck over the wooden floors. She passed an open door, quickly noticing the possessions inside the room. An instinct rose in her gut, one telling her that perhaps she could take more than just a set of clothes. As she eyed a silk fan, something else caught her attention. It was a scent, one so familiar that it had imprinted itself in her memory — it was Shinju’s scent.

Chiyo peered into the neighboring room. It must have belonged to Shinju. From the familiar aroma that drifted in the air to the way that the clothes had been crookedly arranged — it had to have been hers.

Clothes — that was why she was here. If there was anyone that could forgive her for stealing, it would certainly be Shinju. Chiyo crouched beside a shelf, removing a set of haori and hakama. She fumbled with the trousers, realizing that she had no idea how the long strips of cloth could possibly keep it on, nor how to tie a knot in the first place. It was a strange thing, having hands, but she would have to get used to them sooner or later. After a bit of cursing and even more fussing, she finally managed to fasten a bow.

The kitsune placed her hands on her hips, surveying the room with a swell of pride. Not only had she managed to take on a human form, but she had also solved the mystery of knots. It was only the sight of a mirror that distracted her from her own ego.

The mirror was round and made of solid bronze, giving Chiyo a rather clear reflection of herself. She stared for a moment, touching over her lips and cheeks.

“Huh,” she said, her voice low. “I’m pretty good looking.”

It was a mere tilt of her head that sent her long, white hair tumbling over her eyes. She pushed it aside in frustration, wishing that she could remove it completely. Human hair was quite the hassle. It only took a moment for her to find a knife, and a few moments more to strip the locks into something more manageable. Handfuls of ivory strands fluttered to the floor, littering the tatami around her feet. Just as she lowered the knife to admire her work, a voice cut through the air of the room.

“W-what are you doing in my room?”

Chiyo glanced over her shoulder, her eyes widened at the sight of the shrine maiden whose room she had overtaken.

“Who are you?” Shinju continued, trying to keep her voice steady.

The kitsune took in a slow breath through her nose, allowing the human to read her eyes.

“You know who I am,” Chiyo said, trying to ignore the terrible redness in her cheeks.

For a long while, Shinju stared. She knew those eyes — she knew them better than any other. She was having trouble, however, admitting it to herself. Hesitantly, she lifted her hand to her mouth.

“Momo?” Shinju whispered.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she said, her lips lifting into a soft smile. “My name is Chiyo.”