Book II 十ニ Part 12 (Well)

Illustration by K. Ryan

The bottom of the well was black. Fetid water sloshed at Shichi’s chest, soaking his clothes as he clung to the wall. His breathing echoed off of the stone walls, harsh gasps laced with panic. Each inhale brought the smell — the water-logged, decomposing flesh — the sickly-sweet blood and fat. His body lurched forward and he grasped his mouth, forcing down the urge to vomit.

In the dark, his arm brushed the swollen body. He jerked back, bumping against the wall as his panting quickened. His eyes began to water.

“Chiyo!” he shouted, nearly choking midway. The word bounced off of the wooden lid, filling the well with his own voice. Shichi sucked in another breath though his teeth, ignoring the raw pain in his throat.

“Gin,” he added, wondering if anyone was near the well. The moryo would surely keep Izumi from leaving the house. The shrine was far, further than the house. He doubted they were even awake at this point. It was no use.

No one could hear him.

Shichi could have sworn he could hear his own heartbeat — it seemed to fill the well, pounding like a fist on a door. Each breath was shorter than the last. No matter how hard he gasped, he couldn’t get enough air. His chest began to lurch in desperation, burning for oxygen as he choked on the rotting air. Shaking, his hands slipped from the wall, momentarily sinking him deeper into the murky water. He scrambled for purchase, digging his flat nails into a crack between the slabs.

As he gagged on his next breath, he could feel himself losing clarity. Each sensation started to blur — the cold, reeking water, the sound of his own gasps — it was all fading. One thought lingered through the dizziness — if he lost consciousness, he was certain to drown.

Shichi shook the thought from his head. He couldn’t. He had to warn the villagers. If they continued drinking the contaminated water, they would surely die. He had come to the town to help them and there was only one way to do so now. He couldn’t let himself die — not like this.

“Breathe,” he reminded himself, closing his eyes. His next breath came in slowly, filling his chest as he counted the seconds. After a moment, he exhaled.

Minutes passed, feeling like hours as he gradually regained control of his body. His heart was still thumping, but no longer threatened to burst from his chest. Now he could think.

He had told Chiyo and Gin he would check on them in the morning. It would be hours before they noticed his absence. Even then, would anything compel them to look in the well? Chiyo’s sense of smell would be useless — the entire village reeked of sickness.

He wondered what a more capable person would do — how Sagiri or Aki would handle being trapped. That answer, however, was simple.

They would climb out.

Shichi couldn’t see his own hands, but was still quite aware of his impractical human fingernails. Short and weak, they could barely hold to a crack in the wall. Even so, he had no choice — he had to try.

With one hand, he searched the wall in the dark. A film of mold had covered much of the surface, clinging to his skin as he felt between the slabs. After a moment, his fingertips found a sliver of space between two stones. He curled his fingers, steadying himself before making a hesitant pull. His body was mere inches out of the water before his nails slipped, dumping him backwards with a slosh.

Shichi closed his eyes, swallowing his next breath before making another attempt. His nails raked the wall as he slipped once more, leaving long scratches on the grimy surface. Once more, he became lost in his own gasps for air.

This was impossible.

His forehead bumped the wall. He was useless in this body — even more so than before. As a tengu, he’d at least had claws. He recalled with a fleeting moment of fondness all the trees and walls he had scaled, sitting on rooftops to watch the star-filled skies.

She gave you the power.

The memory of Chiyo’s words struck him, forcing his eyes open in the dark.

Why don’t you turn back yourself?

Turn back — he could turn back. Chiyo had said he could do it himself. Unfortunately, each of his past attempts had ended in failure. He lifted his head from the wall, craning his neck towards the lid of the well. It was still too dark to see it, but he knew it was there — there, above his head, waiting for him.

He let out a slow breath, emptying his lungs. He ignored his pulse, the stench — the half-submerged corpse with skin stretched over bloated limbs. He could no longer focus on the well. It was not fear that would give him the strength he needed, but desire. Everything he desired was past the lid — to help the villagers, to tell them the truth, to ensure the safety of his companions.

To see his loved ones again.

Worries snuck in between his thoughts, flashing images of death and decay, of each townsperson giving in to sickness before—

Shichi shook his head, redirecting himself. The old ribbon was snug on his wrist, the frayed fabric reminding him of everything he had survived. He imagined a proper burial — clean water and life in the streets. All he had to do was leave the well. It was simple.

Leave the well.

His head curled forward, changing. Shichi barely noticed the difference in his skin — the darkening tone, the spread of long, black feathers. Blood rushed through shifting limbs and he sucked in another breath, not through a human nose, but through a smooth, hard beak.

As his hands lost their shape, his body plunged back into the water. His eyes snapped open. He reached through the dark, but could no longer grip the wall. In a panic, he attempted treading to keep his head above the murky surface. No — not treading.

Flapping.

He had turned back into a bird.

Water splashed with agitated flaps as he struggled to grasp the wall with his feet. He finally found his grip, barely able to keep his beak above the water. His tiny chest rose and fell with panicked breaths as he cursed himself for failing so spectacularly.

The first time he had taken the form of a raven, he had shown a clear lack of flying ability. Now, with his wings soaked with rotting well water, he doubted his chances had improved. Even if he could fly, he wouldn’t be able to budge the lid of the well.

“This is not better,” he said, glaring at the blackness before him.

Once he came to terms with his loss of hands, he was hit with a realization — he had transformed on his own. There had been no spider-yokai to curse him, nor a well-meaning but ultimately erroneous magic drink to alter his body. With nothing but his own willpower and an entire village at stake, he had shifted to a completely different form. This was promising — wrong, but promising.

“Okay,” he said to himself, closing his eyes again. “Try again.”

After a steadying breath, he returned his attention to his goal. He thought of Izumi and the villagers, of Chiyo, Gin, and the egg that was depending on him. His mind centered on the clear night sky. He remembered Aki and the sword he had promised to care for.

Once more, Shichi’s form began to change.

In the house, Izumi was growing anxious. Her eyes drew from the dim hearth to the door, wondering what was taking the doctor so long. After a moment of deliberation, she stood to make her way to the entrance. Just as she reached the threshold, the door scraped open to reveal a hunched figure.

“Father,” she said, clutching her sleeves.

“Where are you going?” he asked, making no effort to step aside.

“He said he would be back in a moment,” she explained. “I just wanted to—“

“The doctor left,” the man said, shaking his head.

“L-left? What do you—“

“He left,” he repeated. “Like the others. He said there was no hope for this town.”

The girl fell silent. Her head lowered, allowing her eyes to drop to the floor.

“Did you really expect anything else?” he asked, reaching forward to cup her face. His palm held firmly, coarse against the skin of her cheek. Izumi said nothing, only giving a faint shake of her head.

“Don’t look so sad,” he continued, hooking an arm around her shoulder and leading her back to the hearth. “I brought more water. Why don’t you have some tea?”

“Don’t,” came a voice from the doorway.

Recognizing the doctor’s voice, Izumi whirled towards the sound. Her smile, however, dropped as she realized just what was standing in their doorway. It was no human before them, but a monster — one with black, wet feathers and eyes that glowed in the light of the hearth. He was gripping the frame, his shoulders heaving with each labored breath. Grime and foul-smelling liquid dripped from his claws, leaving spots along the floor.

“The water — you mustn’t drink it.”

“T-tengu!” cried a patient from the floor. Every eye in the room had locked on the yokai on the threshold.

“Oh,” Shichi said, averting his eyes. “Right.”

“Get out!” Izumi said, fumbling towards the hearth. Her hands found an iron poker, gripping the base as she wielded it like a sword. “I’m warning you!”

“Tengu?” her father repeated, staring at the intruder with wide eyes. It had been a human he’d pushed down the well — a human, he was certain of it. It had been a mere monk, one without claws — one with strange yellow eyes.

The man’s expression shifted to a glare.

“You heard her,” he said, unsheathing a small knife from inside his jacket. “Get out.”

“Izumi, it’s me — it’s the doctor,” Shichi said, taking another step into the house. The girl stiffened, tightening her hold on the poker.

“Come any closer and I’ll kill you,” her father said, brandishing the knife. The blade glinted against Shichi’s throat, its edge trembling in the man’s hold.

“No you won’t,” the tengu said, keeping his eyes forward as he walked on. The man stammered, clutching the knife with both hands as he was brushed aside. Izumi felt a sudden chill as the yokai approached, yet she somehow maintained her posture.

“You’ve got to listen to me,” Shichi said, stopping in front of her. He soon realized he was looming and hurriedly dropped to a kneel.

“Please,” he continued, his eyes cast upwards intently. For a long while, Izumi returned his stare. This yokai — this tengu, he was nothing like the doctor she’d met before. There was no sign of fair skin, nor was there any of the man’s short, dark hair. Yet, even so, he spoke with the same soft voice — looked at her with the same eyes. It had only been earlier that day when he’d tugged down his hat to hide their color, hoping she hadn’t noticed.

Fortunately, she had.

“You’re him,” she murmured, lowering the poker. “You’re the doctor.”

“Yes,” he replied, letting out the breath he’d been holding.

“Why are you—“ she started, then shook her head. “Ah, what… what did you say? About the water?”

“You mustn’t drink it — it’s tainted,” Shichi explained. “There’s something terrible in the well.”

The tengu paused, then glanced back to the white-haired man past the hearth. The low flames flickered between them, highlighting the fear in the man’s eyes.

“And he put it there.”

“No!” the moryo cried, his glower flashing red. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a monster — a yokai!”

“I am,” Shichi said, his head lowering. “And so are you.”

The knife clattered to the straw floor. The man’s teeth were bared, grit beneath strings of hair. The strands darkened, snaking low — past his shoulders, past his knees as his body curled forward. Izumi was frozen in place, her breath trapped in her chest as she watched her father transform into a stoop-backed creature. Air hissed between the moryo’s teeth, sucking through curled, darkened lips.

A lacquered bowl toppled from a table as the moryo tore through the room. He escaped through the open door, his feet leaving scratches on the wooden boards. The last wisp of black hair disappeared into the night and the house fell into a stiff silence.

Izumi stepped forward.

“Let him go,” Shichi said, stopping her with a hand.

The girl stood in her place, her eyes locked on the darkness past the door. Her lips hung parted, silent. For a moment, no one spoke.

“The well,” she finally said, her hair casting a shadow over her brow. “What’s in the well?”

“A body,” Shichi replied, his eyes softening as the realization took hold of her. Izumi’s hands lifted, trembling as she covered her mouth.

“It’s…” she said, her voice barely audible. “It’s father, isn’t it?”

Her head snapped to face him, imploring, begging him to prove her wrong.

“Isn’t it?”

Shichi didn’t look away, holding her gaze as he gave a single nod. With that, her spine lost all strength, allowing her to crumple forward onto her knees. The last hint of color left her face, leaving only a sickly white tinge to her skin. She gave a dry sob, her shoulders shaking with the effort.

“I’m sorry,” Shichi said, lowering himself. He instinctively reached for her before his eyes caught the grime still glistening on his palm. His hand drew back, tucked at his side as he watched her shiver.

“Izumi,” he said, then took in a breath. “Is there anything I can do?”

She didn’t reply at first. Her back rose and fell as she attempted to catch her breath. Ratty sleeves scrubbed over her face, wiping her swollen eyelids dry.

“I need a moment,” she murmured, glancing upstairs. “I… I have to tell mother.”

Shichi nodded, then stood. He wished there was some way to help her — a way to ease her loss. He knew, however, that only time could do such a thing.

He scanned the room one last time, then turned to leave.

Once outside, Shichi broke into a run. He dashed past the cypress tree, not daring to look towards the well as he left the village. Thick bamboo leaves raked his limbs as he pushed through the stalks. After what felt like ages, he could hear it, just past the slope — he could hear running water.

Shichi nearly tripped over himself as the creek came into view. He collapsed into the current, ignoring the bite of cold as he scoured the filth from his body. The smell, the rot — it had taken every ounce of willpower to ignore it, to focus on the moryo, on the townspeople — to Izumi. Now that they were safe, he could no longer calm his senses. His stomach lurched. Clutching himself, he hunched forward, coughing forth the nauseated gasps and pants that had been desperate to escape his chest.

The moon had grown brighter in the last hour, highlighting the stream with its glow. For a long while, Shichi let the water run over his limbs, rinsing the bile from his feathers. He held up both hands, checking for any signs of filth. It was then he noticed he was shaking. He looked away, plunging his palms back into the water. The smell was still there — the body, the scum, the decay. He wondered if it was real or his imagination — if he’d ever be able to forget the scent.

Shichi exhaled, trying to keep his head up but ultimately failing. It was only a gritty voice that could tear his attention away.

“So, you don’t like the smell?”

Slowly, Shichi looked up. It was the moryo, squatting at the water’s edge with red, gleaming eyes.

“You ruined everything,” the yokai continued, his tone low and raspy. “It’s been so long — so long since I’ve eaten.”

The water continued flowing past Shichi’s waist, stark and icy against the tengu’s skin.

“You wanted too much,” Shichi replied, unmoving.

“What do you care? They’re human. They kill us — we kill them. That is our way.”

“You don’t kill,” Shichi said, shaking his head.

The yokai hissed in response, baring a row of pointed teeth.

“You let death come,” he continued. “You wait for it, then sate your hunger. That is your way.”

For a while, the moryo said nothing.  He watched the monk, unblinking, his short fingers gripping the soil below. Soon, his sneer faded, his lips softening to a mere frown.

“I tire of waiting,” he said, finally closing his eyes.

“Everyone does,” Shichi replied, shaking his head. “But that is life.”

“Life,” he spat, unable to stand the mere taste of the word. The moryo shifted, unfolding his squat legs to turn away.

“You won’t go back, will you?” the tengu asked.

“Perhaps,” he said, scraping back a shroud of black strands. Shichi’s chest tightened, his heart squeezing anxiously.

“For the next funeral,” the moryo finished, giving Shichi a brash, pointed grin. With that, he was gone, leaving the monk alone in the rippling creek.

It was a slow walk back to the village. He left a trail of wet footprints through the bamboo forest, each step heavy with exhaustion. As he pushed aside the curtain to the shrine, he felt a tinge of envy at the sight of his companions. Both were sound asleep. Chiyo lay curled as a fox, the egg tucked dutifully at her side. Gin had sprawled onto his back in a position Shichi hadn’t thought possible. The thought crossed his mind — to leave them be, but a scuff of his foot roused Chiyo into consciousness.

“Oh, it’s you,” she muttered, cracking open an eye. Just as she turned to go back to sleep, she snapped upright in realization.

“Shichi!” she said, her ears perked straight. “You did it! You’re back to normal!”

He gave a weary nod, wishing he had the energy to as proud of himself. Gin rolled over in his sleep, attempting to ignore them both.

“What was it? Did you find another potion?” Chiyo asked, shifting to her human form so she might get a better look at him. She circled the monk, seemingly impressed that he wasn’t missing any limbs.

“Or did you have a sudden rush of inspiration?” she said, grinning.

“I was trapped at the bottom of a well with a corpse.”

“Oh.”

 The two looked at one another for a moment before Chiyo opened her mouth. She paused, reconsidered her question, then tried again.

“What—“

“The water was tainted,” Shichi interrupted, not wanting to relive the moment.

“That’s why they were sick?”

“Yes,” he said, weakly slumping to the floor. Every inch of his body ached. As he rubbed his face, his eyes caught the bowl he had brought in earlier.

“Ah, the food I gave you—“

“Don’t worry,” Chiyo said with a shrug. “We didn’t eat it.”

“That’s a first for you.”

Before the kitsune could reply, a shuffle outside the entrance drew their attention. The curtain swept to the side, revealing a familiar village girl.

“Izumi,” Shichi said, gathering the strength to stand.

Her gaze moved across the room, shifting from Shichi to Chiyo, then down to the cat with two tails. As her eyes returned to the monk, he swallowed.

“So,” she said. “You’re a tengu.”

Shichi nodded, noticing she had calmed considerably. Her eyes, however, were still swollen.

“Are you all right?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“I will be, in time.”

Shichi could hardly imagine what must be going through her mind — to find that her loved one was gone, that he had been replaced with an impostor, that the water they had been drinking—

“It’s strange,” Izumi murmured. “We were cursed by a yokai.”

She took a moment to consider him.

“And saved by one,” she finished, giving him a faint smile.

Shichi could think of nothing to say, only standing abashedly in place.

“Will you stay until we’ve recovered?” she asked.

“Of course,” Shichi said before Chiyo could protest. It was his first invitation to a human village and, in spite of the circumstances, he felt an odd trace of pleasure.

“Thank you, doctor.”

She bowed deeply and he returned the gesture, looking up just in time to watch her leave. He gazed at the empty doorway, momentarily forgetting the moryo and the well.

“Does this mean we’re stuck here all week?” Chiyo groaned, dragging her fingers down her face.

“Yes, Chiyo,” Shichi answered, wishing he could still smile. “It does.”