八 Part 08 (Ash)

Illustration by Yuki O.

The next morning came quietly. The snow had turned to rain, falling in light droplets over the forest floor. It was the first time in many years that Shichi had not risen to the sound of a bell. Any hopes that the previous day had been a dream were dashed as he felt the fresh stitches running up the length of his body. Sagiri had not slept, having spent the night tending to her apprentice’s wounds and keeping watch on their surroundings. Without a word, she led him back down to the ground and gestured for him to follow.

Shichi didn’t know what to say as he walked behind her through the snow. They had both lost their home and companions, barely making it through alive, all because of his choices—because of his lies. She had warned him repeatedly of what might happen. She had told him that this, exactly this, would come—that everything they knew might be destroyed. Even so, he had continued to think only of himself. He knew, as he followed her deep footprints, that there was nothing to say. No excuse or apology had any place between them now.

More than from the pain from his gash, the bruises, or exhaustion, he ached in his heart. Sagiri had also chosen not to speak. He wished that she would—that she would berate and curse him, that she would acknowledge his shame with well-deserved words. Instead, she moved forward without a sound, allowing the guilt in his chest to fester and burn.

When he paused to take notice of his surroundings, he realized the direction they were headed in. It was the path back to the temple. Shichi picked up his head, opening his beak to ask, then thought better of it. He was in no place to question her actions. If it hadn’t been for Sagiri’s decisions, he would have died at the base of the hollow tree. He lowered his head once more, ignoring the soreness in his legs to match her pace.

Soon, they found the outskirts of the temple grounds. The more each black, crumbling structure came into view, the more Shichi could feel himself sinking. Most of the paneling was gone, the roofs having collapsed in on their own weight. Walls of smoke rose from the remains of each building, still curling upward in spite of the rain. There were pools of water scattered over the landscape, many dark with the color of ash and blood. The sight of blood made Shichi remember exactly what had happened the previous night—how the other monks had been trapped inside the meditation hall. The urge to look for survivors overcame his weak limbs and he hurried forward with intention.

His path, however, was suddenly blocked by the length of Sagiri’s naginata. He glanced down at the weapon in front of him, then sideways toward the older tengu. Her attention was locked forward—she was listening. Shichi waited for a moment but didn’t hear anything.

“They may have left some men to see if we would return,” she said, her voice low as she continued to listen. Shichi realized that, once again, he had been careless. They moved forward along the side of a charred beam, alert as they stepped over the wet earth. His attention was caught by a body lying near what was left of the bathhouse. As Sagiri continued, Shichi knelt to examine the fallen monk. She had no pulse, having died quickly from the severity of her wounds. Droplets fell gently over their forms as he closed her eyes with his palm. He slumped next to the body, watching over her for a moment. Taking her hand into his own, he found himself wishing he could apologize to her—wishing that she could understand how sorry he was.

The clang of metal snapped his attention forward. He glanced up in time to see Sagiri’s weapon deftly blocking a human’s blade, then twisting to deflect the man behind her. There were two human soldiers, both equipped with swords as they positioned themselves at either side of the tengu. Shichi rushed forward, momentarily forgetting that he was neither armed nor capable of fighting.

“Stay back,” she snapped at him as she knocked a katana blade aside. He froze in position, recognizing that he would be of absolutely no use to her in a battle; if anything, he would only act as a burden. The men looked momentarily in his direction, but their attention was quickly snatched back as she swiped her blade toward their heels. The first dodged forward just in time, while the other toppled as his ankle was sliced open. He fell to his side, now useless as he bit back a pained scream.

Now on his own, the remaining soldier focused on Sagiri, angling his sword with both hands. Shichi could only stare as the man circled his target, waiting for an opening. The rain grew heavier, darkening their clothes and leaving trails down their exposed faces.

There was a flash of movement as the soldier darted forward, droplets flying from his blade as he swung it forward in an arc. Sagiri’s shoulders turned in a snap as she pounded the handle directly on the back of his skull. The wood was strong enough to send a crack through the air, and the man’s body hit the muddy ground with a thud. The first soldier groaned as he struggled to stand, but Sagiri only stepped over him on her way.

“Come,” she said to Shichi, not looking back as she approached the ruins of the meditation hall. He hurried after her, trying not to look at the subdued humans as he passed.

When Shichi caught up to her at the entrance of the hall, she was gazing inside motionlessly. Her stillness could only mean one thing, and it made his chest tighten with fear. As he came closer, she held out her hand to stop him. After a moment he realized what Sagiri was doing—she didn’t want him to see what was inside. She knew what it would do to him, not only in that moment, but for the entirety of his life. Despite her wishes, he pushed her hand aside and moved forward.

The instant he looked in, his breath left him. His body forgot how to function, stopping him in his tracks as his eyes fell on the scene that lay before him. The color of blackened bone embedded itself in his mind as he dropped to his knees, unable to blink, unable to speak. Both hands went to his chest as he curled forward, his clothes staining with ash. When he found his breath, it came forth in a shudder, unsteady as he clenched his own robe.

“Shichi,” came a voice from ahead, dry and faint as it reached his ears. Slowly, he looked up, unsure if he had heard a voice, or simply his own conscience. When he noticed the slight movement of a body he scrambled up, hurrying over to the source of the voice.

“Shou,” he whispered, pushing aside a fallen pillar to reveal his friend beneath the rubble. Most of his feathers had been burnt, leaving him with patches of reddened flesh. Shichi’s momentary elation faded as he realized there was no hope of survival. The burns were too severe; there was nothing he could do.

“You made it,” Shou said softly, extending his scarred hand. Shichi took it in his own, holding tightly as he leaned in closer.

“It shouldn’t have been me,” Shichi said, his voice barely audible. He could feel Shou squeeze his hand more tightly.

“Don’t say that. You have so much to offer the world,” Shou said, putting forth great effort with each word. “I shouldn’t have teased you about your acupuncture . . . you’re a very good healer.”

“I’m so sorry, Shou,” he said, his hand shaking in the other monk’s grasp. “I can’t heal you this time.”

Shichi swallowed.

“It’s my fault,” he said, lowering his head.

There was a silence as Shou took in a breath, using the last of his energy to continue speaking.

“No . . . I know you would never do that,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Even if you said you did.”

“Shou . . .”

“You would never hurt anyone, would you?” Shou said, his voice no louder than a sigh. A moment later, his hand went limp in Shichi’s grasp.

“I’m sorry,” Shichi said, his head dropping down onto his friend’s chest. Though the other was gone, his hold on Shou’s hand didn’t relent, only tightening as he wept into the burnt cloth. “I’m so sorry.”

He sat huddled over the other monk’s body for a long time, having come too late to protect him, too late to truly apologize. He didn’t notice as Sagiri settled down beside him, only becoming aware of her presence when she placed a hand on his shoulder. Hesitantly, he glanced up at her. Instead of the disappointment or scorn he expected, there was only a quiet sadness in her eyes. Without a word, she pulled her student into her arms, saying everything that she needed with the strength of her embrace.

#

Rain continued to pour as the two survivors collected the bodies of the fallen. Lacking the resources to perform proper a funeral, they chose to cremate the monks together. The human men had been bound with scraps of cloth and secured to a thick tree, leaving the tengu enough time to go through with their sober task. Teacher and student stood side by side, watching the fire as they offered their final prayers.

It wasn’t the first funeral Shichi had attended. In the decades he’d lived at the temple, he had seen young tengu arrive as the old passed away. He had grown from a boy to an adult and had watched his peers rise and fall. Many of the others were much younger than he—Shichi had never wanted to outlive them. He couldn’t help but think, as he watched the flames consume their remains, that this wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

Shichi and Sagiri avoided speaking as they gathered what supplies they could find. Little had escaped the fire. His sealed box of acupuncture needles had survived, as well as a few robes and a gourd of liquor.

“Take a shakujo.” Sagiri gestured to the walking staves that had fallen from their mounts. He knelt, carefully lifting a wooden staff from the film of ash that covered the floor. It had withstood more damage than the others, bearing only a few blackened scratches. Shichi ran his thumb along the iron rings that hung from the head, drawing forth a metallic chime. These were normally only used for ceremonies or as a weapon in self-defense. He had never needed one in the past. When he gave Sagiri a puzzled look, she answered quite simply. “We have a long way to walk.”

With a small satchel in one hand and the staff in the other, Shichi followed the older tengu away from the ruins of the temple. He fought the urge to glance back. From that point on, he could only look forward.

Sagiri would not say where they were going. She only instructed that he follow, leading her pupil through the wet forest. Their breath left trails as they walked, making their way over frozen roots and hardened streams. It wasn’t long before Shichi was hit by a wave of dizziness, making each step a hurdle and filling his head with a faint buzzing. Initially, he attributed it to his emotional distress. When his wound began to swell, however, he realized the source was physical. His skin felt hot around the stitches, and he couldn’t discern whether the pounding he felt was from his head or his heart.

Despite his symptoms, he remained silent. Once the men freed themselves, they would surely tell the others of their survival. It was possible they’d be chased, hunted for as long as it would take. Resting was not an option. He was already slow enough as it was; he was certain that Sagiri had halved her pace for his sake. Tightening his grip on the walking staff, he shook his head and carried on behind her.

On the third day, the dizziness blossomed into a fever. A liquid had begun to seep from his wound, though he dared not remove the bandages to check. The throbbing was so distracting that he almost didn’t notice when Sagiri stopped and spoke.

“We’re here.”

He looked up to see a wide clearing in the woods. Though the trees were bare, their branches were ancient and twisted enough to block most of the sun. Only a few faint streams of light filtered through, revealing a modest hut tucked against the base of a tree. Beside it ran a narrow stream, though most of it had been stiffened into ice. A patchwork of thick roots covered the ground, many dipping hungrily into water’s edge.

“Are we safe?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

When she nodded, Shichi took in a deep breath. The air was icy as it filled his lungs, temporarily cooling his warm throat.

“I have a fever.”

This was all he could manage to say before the staff fell from his hand with a clang, his body dropping curtly to the ground beside it.

He was barely aware of what happened next, vaguely recalling his mentor taking him into the hut. After placing him on a straw mat, Sagiri set to work removing the bandages and checking the state of the wound. She tested the skin around the cut, taking note of the heat and pus. He hissed in pain as she pressed down, drawing a disappointed sigh from her chest.

“It’s infected,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You knew it was infected.”

Shichi only turned his head, ignoring her accusation.

“You’re an idiot,” Sagiri said, gloriously blunt as she uncapped the gourd of sake she’d salvaged. “And you deserve this.”

There was no time to protest as she placed a hand flat on his collar, using the other to pour the alcohol over the reddened flesh. His back jerked into an arc, his fingers twisting into the straw as he cried out. Just as he began to catch his breath, she poured once more, robbing him of dignity as he tossed his head back to groan.

“I wouldn’t have had to do this if you’d have told me sooner,” she said, seething as she set aside the gourd. “Everything you’ve been through, and you want an infection to kill you?”

Without giving him a chance to respond, she left the hut to fetch a bucket of water. Upon returning, she washed her hands and set to work cleaning and draining the gash. The excessive length of the cut ensured that it would be a slow process, and hiking through the forest had done no favors to his healing. Finally, the wound was dressed and set.

“You’re fortunate that chickweed can grow under the snow,” Sagiri said, tilting her head back to drain the remaining liquor in the gourd. When he didn’t respond, she lowered her gaze to meet his own.

“Or did you want to die?”

Shichi only closed his eyes.

“Dying is easy,” Sagiri said, her voice steady. “I taught you better than that.”

After a minute, he looked up again, letting out a soft breath.

“You did.” He glanced up at the ceiling of the hut. “What is this place?”

“I spent a long time meditating here before I became an ordained bikuni,” she said. “And occasionally afterward, when I needed to clear my thoughts.”

Shichi could remember the few occasions that Sagiri had left the temple for a week at a time, usually leaving a staggering list of chores for him to complete before she returned. The hut looked as if she had built it herself. It was rather simple, having just enough space to provide shelter and keep a few necessities. His eye caught sight of a mortar and pestle on a low wooden table—she appeared to have left a few medical supplies from the past, as well.

“How long will we stay here?” Shichi asked, using conversation to distract him from the pain of his infected wound.

“There is another temple a two week’s journey from here.” She fed the fire in the small sand-filled pit near the center of the room. “I will be joining them. You, however, must find your own path.”

Though Sagiri had always been strict with him, stifling his pride with criticism and elusive expectations, the thought of being apart from her left a pang of fear in his chest. She had been a source of guidance and stability for nearly all of his life. He had never been on his own before.

“My own path?”

“Yes,” she said. “And it will not be easy. You will wander without rest. You will be hunted. You will suffer. All you can do is to devote yourself to helping others—then perhaps one day your life will find balance again.”

Shichi fell silent. Despite the inevitable hardship he would face on his own, he was thankful for the chance to redeem himself. This, he realized, was why he had survived. Only one thing troubled him about her outlook—if he was destined to suffer, he could not bear asking Kana to share the same fate. If his life was to be spent on repentance, would there be any room in it for love? He remembered, however, his promise to return to her. Her place in his future would be her choice, in the end.

“I understand,” he finally answered.

“Unfortunately,” she said, glancing down at him with an arched brow. “You’re not yet ready to be on your own. I will train you for one more year before we part.”

Shichi exhaled. He would have embraced her if he weren’t certain that she’d recoil in irritation. Though he had been prepared to make his own way, he felt incalculable relief at her words. One year was a scant amount of time in a tengu’s lifespan, but it would be all that he needed.

“You would still train me, after what I did?” he asked, unable to hide his skepticism.

“Dwelling on the past detracts from the future. You can either lay there and question me, or you can shut your beak and get some rest.”

Shichi took the hint, going quiet as he closed his eyes.

“And you had best sleep while you can. When you’re healed, I’m going to work you to the bone.”

Despite the severity in her tone and the transparent threat in her words, Shichi found himself glad to hear them. He had lost a great deal in the last few days. Yet somehow, as he lay next to the dim fire, all he could feel was gratefulness for what he had left.