七 Part 07 (Fire)

Upon waking, the only thing Shichi could feel was shock. This was mostly because he had expected to die. Instead of experiencing some kind of karmic rebirth, he was still on the mountain, bleeding and prone in the snow. White flakes fell gently over his body, soundless as they touched the ground. At first, his awakening was gradual, feeling the cold on his face and then the pain of his wound. When he remembered what had happened, however, his eyes snapped open.

“Kana . . .” He groaned, shifting his body in an attempt to sit upright. This proved to be rather difficult, and he collapsed once again on his side. He felt over his chest, taking note of the depth of the cut. The gash ran diagonally from his hip to his shoulder, having torn through both flesh and cloth without discretion. The more he considered the size of his wound, the more his survival puzzled him. Only after a sudden shiver did he realize that the uncomfortable cold had actually been his savior. The snow had slowed the bleeding to a near stop, granting him time to regain consciousness.

Shichi glanced up toward the woods, looking for a sign of where they had gone. The surrounding landscape was nothing more than a blur. Focusing on the trees made his head pound, and he lowered his eyes with a wince. He took one breath, and then another, struggling to reorient himself. Though the winter cold had eased his bleeding, red continued to stain the snow below him. It coated his hand, glistening against the black skin of his palm.

Shichi wasn’t afraid of death, nor did he welcome it. What did frighten him was how his actions would affect those he loved. For that reason, he could not allow himself to die—not yet. With shaking hands, he pushed himself up onto his knees.

Moving instinctively, he gripped the damaged side of his robe, ripping it into a long, jagged strip. He wrapped the fabric tightly around his torso, winding it all the way up to his shoulder. There wasn’t time to clean the wound or make a poultice—if he didn’t stop the bleeding immediately, he would most certainly get to experience the rebirth he had been expecting. With as firm a grip as he could manage, he tied the end into a solid knot at his collar.

A strange smell caught his attention and he drew his eyes up the mountainside. It was the scent of firewood—no, it was stronger. Another white flake drifted down to his hand and he stared at it, trying to figure out why it wasn’t melting. Why it was gray and soft and—

Ash. It was ash. Shichi took in a sharp breath, turning toward the temple. An orange glow illuminated the bare trees, and it was only then that he noticed the sparks floating down with the wind. His wound was forgotten; all notions of pain and weakness were cast aside as he staggered to his feet, taking himself up the mountainside, leaving droplets of blood in his wake.

The hundred and eight steps to the temple entrance had never before been such an obstacle. He forced himself upward, one stair after another, following the distant shouts and clangs of metal. Upon reaching the top, he nearly crumpled to his knees—not from the climb, but from the sight that lay before him.

Flames engulfed the entirety of the temple. Each building, from the meditation hall to the bath house, lay sieged by fire, their beams collapsing and paint curling as they burnt. A wave of heat hit him as he stumbled closer, desperate for a sign of the others. A single figure caught his eye, laying still near the steps of the main hall. Shichi dropped beside the fallen monk, gently turning the body.

“Shingo,” he said, out of breath as his fingers clambered for a pulse. Blood pooled from the wound across the tengu’s throat, his eyes glazed and still.

“Shingo,” he repeated, curling forward as the truth stared plainly back at him. The monk was dead. Shichi’s hands, now gripping tightly to the other’s robe, began to shudder. With each rapid breath, Shichi’s chest rose and fell, taking in gasps of heat and ash. This was his fault.

This was all his fault.

“There’s another one, over here,” came a voice from the other side of the structure. It was a man from the village, armed with a simple blade in one hand and a torch in the other. The weapon dripped with blood, leaving a trail as he walked toward the two grounded figures.

“Wait, that’s him!” came the voice of a different man—a voice Shichi recognized. It was Masaru. “That’s the one who took her.”

The tengu glanced up, taking in the sight of the samurai before him. The human’s eyes burned as brightly as the flames at his back, his sword heavy with the weight of death. He pushed the other man aside, leaving footprints in the ash as he came forward.

“You survived,” Masaru said, his complexion reddening in a disgraced flush. The ray skin on his sword hilt creaked beneath his fingers.

“Sir, we found two more,” reported another man as he interrupted the scene. With him were two of the temple’s monks, their forms battered and their arms restrained.

“Shou . . . Sanae.” Shichi gasped, staring as the two looked helplessly back at

him.

“The others are all accounted for. We’ve locked them inside.”

“All of them? You’re certain?” the samurai said, wiping his blade clean.

“There was only one who was able to fight us off. She escaped into the woods, but I sent three men after her. You have my word she will be caught.”

Only one monk in the temple was skilled enough with the naginata to fight off seasoned warriors. Sagiri was still alive. The other monks, however, had not been so lucky.

“Please,” Shichi begged, still on his knees. “Let them go. It was me. It was only

me.”

Masaru’s attention snapped back to the tengu at his feet.

“It was you,” he agreed, using the tip of his sword to draw Shichi’s head upward. “Admit what you did, then. Tell the truth.”

“I . . .” he began, his eyes straying back toward his bound companions. He swallowed, knowing full well that the truth was the least he could give. “I loved a human woman.”

“Lies!” Masaru shouted in return, using his heel to force the tengu onto the ground. “You’re a demon. You’re incapable of love! Tell them what you did—that you possessed her. That you forced yourself upon my wife!”

“I would never,” Shichi said, choking. “I would never do such a thing.”

“Then you and your kind will die with the truth,” Masaru said, making a gesture to the men that were holding the two monks.

“Wait,” Shichi said, still prone beneath the man’s foot. “Wait.”

The men stopped moving, and Masaru looked down at the tengu expectantly. When Shichi managed eye contact with his friends, they met his eyes with apprehension. He knew what had to be done. His lies in the past had led to this, and he would have to lie once more to end it.

“It’s true,” Shichi said, trying to ignore the nausea rising with each word. “I did it. I took her.”

He couldn’t bear to look at them, not wanting to imagine their reactions to his betrayal. It must have been painful to know that their fellow monk, someone they had trusted, could have acted so selfishly.

“Lock them in with the others,” Masaru said, breaking the silence. “I’ll kill this one myself.”

“No!” Shichi called out, pulling himself up. “I told the truth. I—”

“I never made an agreement with you.”

“You can’t!”

There was nothing he could do as the men pulled Shou and Sanae away, dragging the two toward the barred temple doors. A moment later, only Masaru and Shichi were left at the bottom of the stairs. The tengu staggered up, only to be knocked down once more by the man’s heel.

“I should have let you watch them die. I should have made you suffer the same way Kana has. Consider yourself blessed.”

Of all the studying and training he had done at the temple, the skill Shichi had neglected above all others was that of self-defense. While the other monks had practiced proper form and the handling of weapons, he had spent his time wandering the forest in search of herbs, never once considering that such skills might one day be valuable. As such, he had only one option to consider as Masaru positioned his sword. He would lower his head, eyes lightly closed, and accept death.

As the blade rose beside him, Shichi couldn’t help but think that death was not a fitting punishment for the suffering he had caused. Perhaps in his next life he could properly atone for what he had done.

Instead of the expected sound of steel cutting through air, there came a dull knock—much like a stone against wood. The odd noise drew Shichi’s attention away from his moment of self-loathing, allowing him to open his eyes just in time to catch Masaru’s body hitting the ground. In the spot where the samurai once stood was Kana, panting with effort and clutching a rather large chunk of broken statue.

“You’re alive,” she said before he could react, tossing her weapon aside to pull him into her arms. He weakened against her, barely able to put his thoughts into words.

“I . . . I don’t—”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her hands staining with blood as she clutched him. “I’m so sorry.”

“What happened?” he managed to say, his head buzzing with pain.

“He locked me in my room, but I broke the door. I thought you were dead. I thought—”

The gratefulness Shichi felt for her was wrenched suddenly away as he remembered what had happened only moments before.

“The others.” He gasped, moving to stand. “I have to—”

“You can’t. There are a dozen men by the door. They’ll kill you on sight.”

“I have to try,” he insisted, trying to free himself from her grasp on his arm.

“I won’t let you die,” she said, tightening her hold.

“But it’s my fault,” he said, his voice slowing as he glanced down at Shingo’s body at his side. “It’s because of me.”

Their exchange was interrupted by the sound of marching—of a dozen armed men returning to the temple entrance. It was too late now. The others would die, and if Kana hadn’t found him, Shichi would have shared their fate.

“You have to go. They’ll kill you.” She gently turned his head so he might see the pang in her eyes.

“Kana . . .”

There was quite a lot that he wanted to say, but the approach of the villager’s footsteps told him there wasn’t time. He wanted to thank her for returning, for saving him, and for every moment they had shared together—for loving him despite their differences, entirely and with all of her heart. This couldn’t be their last moment together. He would have to return, to tell her everything that he longed to.

“You must go,” she said, though she still held tightly to his arms. “Now.”

Lifting his hands, he took each side of her face. His forehead rested against hers, gently nudging her as he spoke.

“I’ll come back,” he said, pushing her hair behind her ear. “I promise I’ll come

back.”

She nodded, managing a bittersweet smile. Long shadows drew over their feet and a moment later Shichi had slipped out of her grasp, disappearing through the trees at the edge of the temple grounds.

Kana wasn’t the only one who had watched him escape. Several of the men shifted their attention to the woods and, after a brief exchange of orders, split up to set chase.

Though he was wounded, Shichi knew the forest intimately. While the villagers stumbled over the underbrush, he followed the familiar paths that had once led him to the clearings and gullies where herbs grew. Finding part of a stream that had not yet frozen, he followed its curve to avoid leaving footprints. There was only place he could think of that would be safe. The hollow tree that had often sheltered him from the rain was also one of the tallest in the forest. If he could scale its height to a higher branch, he could stay hidden from the men’s eyes.

As he felt his body weakening and the shouts of the men edging closer, he began to doubt if he could even catch a glimpse of the old tree before they would take him. It had never felt so far away. One of his legs gave out and he stumbled down to the snow, grating his side on a slate of rock. His wound throbbed angrily, robbing him of clear thought. Torchlight illuminated a snow bank behind him, and he dug his fingers into a stump, forcing himself up once more.

He wasn’t sure what was keeping him moving. His body had been pushed beyond its physical capabilities, scraping up the faintest dregs of energy from somewhere in his core. The earth below his feet was frozen, but he could no longer feel the cold. Every muscle in his body burned, his lungs ragged and his head pounding with blood. Finally, he saw the tree.

He fell to his knees beside the trunk, his throat raw as he struggled for air. It was here that his limbs finally submitted, going limp beneath him. It was no use. Even if he could find the energy to stand, it would be impossible to pull himself up.

Closing his eyes, he collapsed against the base of the tree. The coarse bark brushed against his face as he sank lower, reminding him of just how far he’d come before failing.

“Get up,” came a voice from above. Weakly opening one eye, Shichi glanced up to see his mentor crouched in a bough of the tree. Sagiri. One of her hands held firmly to the trunk while the other balanced a long naginata. There were cuts across her shoulder and beak, but she was otherwise in fair condition.

“I can’t,” he whispered, unsure if she could even hear him. The words were chalky in his throat, coming out with a labored breath.

“Shichi,” she said, her voice hardened as the men of the village drew nearer. “You must. If you can think of even one thing worth living for, then get up.”

Nearly everything he had lived for was now gone. His home, his companions, and his conviction—all had been claimed by fire, reduced to ashes because of his actions. The temple garden where he had been planning to start growing radishes, the rooftop, even the quiet spot by the hinoki tree which was perfect for reading—it was all gone. If anything had survived, it might have been the distant storehouse where he had spent all those afternoons with Kana.

Kana. He had promised her that he would return. There were so many things he wanted to say. If he could touch her hair and hear her voice just once more, that would certainly be something worth living for.

“Get up!” Sagiri’s hand lowered into his view. Shichi’s eyes shut tightly, then opened as he reached for her. Summoning his last mite of strength, he straightened himself, his hand shaking as he grasped her own. With a tight hold, she hefted him up onto the bough, holding him close as the villagers ran past below them.

She waited for the voices to fade into the distance, then turned her attention back to her student.

“Shichi, you—” she started, then paused as she realized that he had lost consciousness. She sighed, keeping the young monk in her arms as the forest kept a silent watch around them.