十三 Part 13 (Poppies)

“Mother, Father . . . I want to study.”

Shichi’s parents looked up from their meals simultaneously, staring at the young tengu with apprehension. It was his clutch sister, however, who spoke up first.

“Why?” she asked, though her attention was still on her food. She ate another piece of sweet potato before looking expectantly at her brother.

“Why?” Shichi repeated, unable to grasp the implication in her question. “Why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t anyone?”

“Because it’s boring,” she said.

“Nana, don’t talk and eat at the same time,” their mother scolded, then turned her attention back to her son. “Shichi, you’re already studying. You attend Oto’s lessons every day.”

“I know. But I— I feel like there’s so much more to learn. There are only five books in the village and—”

“You’ve read them a hundred times,” said his elder sister, Fuu. “We know.”

“I want to join a temple. I want to be part of something.”

His parents were silent for a moment before his father finally sighed.

“It’s good that you’re ambitious. We really do think so,” he said. “But it’s a bit early to be making that kind of decision. You’re only twelve.”

“I’m twelve, too!” Nana leaned in closer as she protested, pushing her brother aside in the process.

Shichi groaned and nudged her away with his elbow. “You can’t even decide what to wear in the morning.”

“You’re not helping your case,” his mother said, rubbing her forehead. After a moment, she let her eyes fall back onto her only son. Shichi—still so young, who already wanted to leave home.

“Joining a temple is a lifelong commitment,” she said.

“I understand.” He looked down at his meal. “That’s why I want to start

now.”

“Don’t you think you’ll feel lonely?” Fuu asked. “You’ve never been away from us before.”

“Shou wants to go, too. It wouldn’t be so bad if we went together.”

His parents looked at one another. Though they were hesitant, his request had been no surprise. He had shown signs of dissatisfaction for years. Each time a tengu traveled outside the village, he would bombard them with questions upon their return. He had jumped at every chance to visit a temple and would regard visiting monks with awe.

“Maybe you should let him go,” Fuu said. “He’s not very good at weaving, anyway.”

“He’s just fine at weaving,” their mother said, defending him in spite of the truth. For a while, the table was silent. Shichi looked from one parent to another, then back down at his hands. Though his heart had been pumped with tenacity only moments ago, it was now wistfully deflating.

“We’ll think about it. For now, you’ll continue studying with Oto,” his mother said, making sure her voice was stern.

“Really?” he said, glancing up with bright eyes.

“That’s not a ‘yes,’ understand?” his father said, attempting to match his wife’s rigidity. Despite being the shortest in the entire family, she had a much more powerful presence than he. Shichi nodded vigorously, grateful for even a chance to have his wish granted.

“Good. Now clear the table for tea.”

#

Tea.

What Shichi wouldn’t have given for a cup of tea. Winter had come rather quickly that year. The greenery had already dried and fallen, leaving him with few options for food. The ridges of his ribs had begun to protrude, and the flesh over his joints was tight and thin. Both his hunger and the wound on his leg had weakened him, but he continued to press on.

The rain turned to snow. It covered the landscape in a sheet of white—clean and untouched. Shichi stopped at an old, fallen tree, using his claw points to cut through the rough outer layer. This was peeled off to reveal the softer, cream-colored bark below. By then, he had grown used to the bland, dusty taste. Though it was enough to keep him alive, he continued to grow thinner with each day.

Two more days passed before he had stopped feeling hungry. His stomach had given up on its protests, coming to accept the fact that there was simply no food. The temple’s mountain had been lush, always laden with herbs, roots, and fruit trees. This forest was barren in comparison, covered in miles of stark pine and dead grass. As he rubbed his arm for warmth, he noticed feathers coming loose in his hand. The sight startled him—feathers normally only molted in the summer. Averting his eyes, he let them drift down to the snow before moving on.

Eventually, his body started to consume itself. Muscle disappeared. He ached from his core but no longer noticed the pain. He had forgotten where he was going and why he was running. He could no longer recall why it was so important for him to continue. He stopped at the base of a tree, collapsing to his knees. His head swayed for a moment, and he steadied himself with a hand on the trunk. Shichi glanced up at the snow as it fell, his eyes glazed and heavy. More than anything, he wanted to sleep. To rest for days or weeks—even forever. It would be pure bliss.

Shichi went limp against the tree. His eyes shut, allowing him a few precious moments of peace. He tried desperately to remember what he was doing and what he had left behind. He wondered why his heart was so heavy.

His struggles to think were interrupted by the crunching of snow. He could hear the step of boots and the soft panting of a dog. Slowly, his eyes opened, looking up to see Zaisei and his pet standing before him.

At first, they were both silent, simply watching one another amidst the falling snow. Zaisei’s expression was one of quiet disappointment. The dog still wore the splint on its front leg—this relieved Shichi, who had been worried that the hunter would remove it in an act of pride.

“Are you going to kill me?” Shichi finally asked, his voice dry from disuse.

“I can’t kill something that’s already dying,” the hunter replied. There was a bitterness in his tone, as if he had been robbed of something. He shuffled with a satchel at his waist, untying it before tossing it down to the tengu’s feet. The cover hung open, revealing the cache of dried mushrooms and gourd strips inside.

“When you regain your strength, you will use every last bit of it to give me a good chase,” Zaisei said, his eyes dark as he spoke. “So I may kill you the proper way.”

Shichi couldn’t think of anything to say. He stared at the bag, then back up at the hunter who had given it to him. The words were clear, but he was having trouble putting them together in his head.

“And I will kill you. Do you understand?” Zaisei said. After a minute, Shichi gave a slow nod. The hunter accepted his response, exhaling into the cold air as he turned around the leave. The dog followed after, leaving the tengu alone on the forest floor. Shichi watched them disappear into the trees. As his eyes fell back on the satchel of food, he found that he could suddenly remember why he was traveling and exactly where he needed to go.

#

Though the satchel wasn’t large, it had carried enough food to last Shichi for several days. He started slowly, eating only a few handfuls throughout each day, allowing his stomach to grow accustomed to digestion. His mind began to clear. He noted the positions of the sun and stars, making his way back toward the river. Only the mountains were cold enough for snow, and the brown earth began to reveal itself as he descended. With the soil came roots, and soon he had foraged a small stock to refill the bag.

The river was a welcome sight. Though the water was icy, he removed his shoes to wade into its embrace. The current was painfully cold, rushing fast enough to make him falter as he moved. It washed away the blood and dust, biting his skin, reminding him how to shudder and cringe—how to feel alive. Shichi knelt, removing the bandage from his calf to rinse the wound. It had finally begun to heal. The skin was closed but sore. He wondered how long it would be before he could climb trees again. It had been difficult to sleep on the ground; it was as if his body knew that it wasn’t safe.

The riverbank was lined with bone poppies, named for their blanched white petals. These were tenacious flowers, growing even in the cold of winter. They had grown around his childhood village, often used for their sleep-inducing sap. Shichi re-bandaged his leg, then approached the bank to gather a few pods. The less time he wasted trying to fall asleep, the better.

He crouched in the sea of ivory flowers, harvesting the swollen pods to save for later. His motions were careful, making sure not to accidentally expose the sap. The smell alone could blacken one’s consciousness within seconds. As he placed a pod into his satchel, a shift of movement caught his eye. At first, he couldn’t discern the pale figure from the petals, but a harder look revealed the outline of fur.

It was a white fox, curled up among the poppies. His initial thought was to leave it be, but he soon realized that its breathing was troubled. The creature panted fretfully, its eyes snapping up to watch him as he approached. It looked at him, not with fear, but with suspicion. Its gaze was tense and intelligent, boring into him as he moved closer. As its tail twitched in agitation, he noticed that it was accompanied by two others—three tails in total. This wasn’t an ordinary fox.

Shichi had read about kitsune and heard personal accounts, but he had never actually met one before. He had been told many things—that they were magical, that they could possess others and breathe fire. Whether these things were true or not, he would have to see for himself. The only thing he was certain of was that the fox before him was clearly suffering.

“Are you all right?” he asked, tilting his head.

The kitsune stared at him for only a moment more before attempting to drag itself off. It could barely stand, however, and wobbled before collapsing once again. It averted its eyes, seemingly embarrassed with its failure. Shichi knelt, placing his hands on his knees as he made one more attempt.

“Do you need help?”

He received a glare in response. This didn’t deter the monk, however, and he waited patiently for a reply. After a moment, the kitsune closed its eyes, putting forth a great effort to continue breathing.

“He . . . took it,” came a weary answer. The voice was female, strained as she spoke.

“Took what?”

“My ball,” she said, clearly annoyed at having to speak. Each word seemed forced and hinted at an unseen, internal pain.

Shichi could remember reading about the balls that all kitsune carried. The peach-sized spheres were often depicted in statues, carried in their mouths or balanced on their tails. The balls supposedly housed the kitsunes’ souls, and being separated for too long could be fatal. Shichi wanted to know who “he” was, and how this person had managed to take it from her, but she didn’t seem to have the time or energy for an explanation.

“Which way did he go?” He stood, hooking his satchel back over his shoulder.

Her eyes cracked open long enough to gaze off in one direction, gesturing toward the forest with a glance.

“I’ll return soon.”

Part of him worried that this wasn’t his business—he didn’t know the full story or anything about the person he was looking for. It couldn’t have been Zaisei. The hunter would have been more interested in her pelt than some spiritual ball. Shichi couldn’t, however, ignore someone in need. No matter what the story was, it wouldn’t have to end in death.

Shichi continued in the direction she had indicated, looking for any hints of another person. Tracking was another skill he had never developed. Luckily, he spotted footprints in the peat that could only belong to a human. His pace quickened, running after the trail to find whoever it was that had made them.

Soon, he spotted a man walking hurriedly through the trees. Rather than a hunter or bandit, he appeared to be a peasant, dressed in the modest clothing of a farmer. The human’s pace was rather quick, as if he were moving in a panic. There was no time to think of a proper strategy—Shichi would have to act now. He hoped that this could be resolved through communication; perhaps it had just been a misunderstanding. Even so, he removed a single pod from his satchel and kept it tucked in the palm of his hand.

“Who’s there?” the human said, turning at the sound of Shichi’s approach. He spoke in a nervous, wavering tone, and his eyes flickered with each word.

“I am.” Shichi gave a light bow as he stepped forward. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

The human faltered, unaccustomed to seeing tengu. He clutched the pouch at his waist, stepping backward as he stared.

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to ask,” he said, keeping his tone soft as he walked closer, “if you took something from a kitsune?”

With those words, something seemed to snap in the human’s red-lined eyes. They widened, quivering with realization.

“You can’t have it!” He took another step away. “It’s mine.”

“What do you need it for?” Shichi narrowed his eyes, curious.

“That’s— that’s none of your business.”

“Please, I must return it,” Shichi said, now standing face to face with the man. “She needs it to live.”

The human paused at Shichi’s statement, his expression showing the slightest hint of softening. Yet, only a moment later, the panic returned to his eyes. He shook his head, taking in a shaking breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t.”

“Then I’m sorry, too.”

As he spoke, Shichi made a faint slit in the pod with his claw. The poppy sap leaked out, smudging onto his palm. He held his breath as he lifted his hand, clamping his fingers over the human’s mouth. Almost instantly, the man swayed, his eyelids fluttering as he went limp. Shichi caught him in his arms, easing him down to the ground.

“You’ll be all right,” he whispered, leaning the body against a thick tree. “It’s just a short rest.”

The human was out cold, giving Shichi a moment to drop the pod and clean his hand. The farmer carried little on his person, having only the clothes on his back and the worn pouch on his belt. Shichi unfastened the string, reaching in to remove its contents. Sure enough, it had been holding a pearly white ball.

It was surprisingly warm, carrying a luminescent sheen over its smooth surface. It almost seemed to glow. Shichi forced himself to look away, placing it in his bag and making his way back to the river. Though he knew he had done the right thing, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. He had acted as a common thief, abusing his knowledge of herbs to steal from someone. Reminding himself that it was a matter of life or death, he hurried through the forest. He could only hope that the kitsune was still alive.

As he returned to the riverbank, he was relieved to find that she was well. Before he could even speak, she had picked up her head, ears perked at his approach. She seemed to know what he was carrying without asking, hopping up to her feet in anticipation. Kneeling, he removed the ball from his bag and offered it to her. The kitsune didn’t waste a second, immediately snatching it up in her mouth before darting away. As she reached the tree line, she hesitated, giving him one last glance over her shoulder. He returned the look, silent as he watched her. With a snort, she turned away, disappearing into the forest.

“Take care,” he murmured, crouched motionlessly among the swaying poppies.

From there, his journey continued along the river. Bare tree branches hung over the water, their limbs dark against the gray sky. It was only a matter of time before he reached the sea. From there, he could continue on to Awaji Island, a stepping stone between his home and the mainland. The day’s travel, however, would have to end. It was already growing dark.

Shichi found a spot at the base of an old tree, settling down along the roots. Running after the human had been tiring, and he had forgotten to eat anything since morning. Just as he opened his satchel to select a root, there was a rustling behind him. Before he could pick up his staff, the very same human rushed forth from the dry bushes.

“Thief!” He grabbed Shichi by the collar and slammed him up against the tree. “Where is it?”

The man throttled him, wrapping his calloused hands around the tengu’s throat as he repeated his question. His shout was desperate. Shichi could have sworn that he could see tears in the corners of the human’s eyes.

“I don’t have it,” he said, finding it difficult to speak.

“You’re lying! Give it back to me!”

His grip was tight enough to pull feathers, rigid and unrelenting.

“I-I’m telling you the truth. I don’t have it,” Shichi said, trying in vain to loosen the man’s hands. Unfortunately, he was much weaker than the farmer and couldn’t so much as budge the human’s fingers. It was then that the man seemed to believe him, gritting his teeth as he looked away in thought. He made a realization, turning his attention back to the monk with an even stronger glare.

“The kitsune. Where is she? Where did she go?”

“I don’t know.”

“I wonder,” the farmer said, removing one hand to reach into the folds of his shirt. “If this is still potent.”

He pulled out a ragged cloth, letting it drop to reveal the very same pod he had been subdued with. Shichi’s eyes widened at the sight of it.

“N-no, I—”

He couldn’t finish speaking—the human grabbed him by the beak, keeping it shut as he squeezed the pod in his fist. Milky white sap oozed out, leaking between his fingers. He clamped his palm over the tengu’s nostrils. The world immediately began to spin, twisting into darkness. It felt as if his body had turned to stone. His vision flickered before his eyes closed, unconscious before he could even hit the ground.