二十四 Part 24 (Tanuki)

“Once again, from the beginning,” Sagiri said, her hands folded behind her back. Shichi nodded from his place on the floor, his palms set neatly on his folded knees.

“Kakkon-to—cold symptoms, headaches, and fever,” he recited from memory. “For a quick, floating pulse and reddened tongue. Made from kuzu, ephedra, peony root, ginger, licorice root, cinnamon, and natsume.”

Sagiri listened silently as her pupil continued to recount the memorized herbal formulas. It had been two decades since he had arrived at the temple, and he had since aged into a proper adult. To her dismay, the boy had quickly surpassed her in height. Even so, he continued to be an obedient, dedicated student. He had proven to be much more than a shy child, gradually exposing his abilities as time went on.

“Gokoto—asthma, breathing troubles, fever, and coughs. For a slippery pulse and yellowed tongue. Made from gypsum, ephedra, apricot seed, mulberry bark, and licorice root.”

“That’s enough for today. You may return to your chores,” she said with a nod. There were more than a hundred formulas and, in a surprisingly short time, he had managed to memorize each one. Despite this, she kept her outward approval to a minimum. It would not do for a healer to have an inflated ego, no matter how skilled.

“Yes, Master,” Shichi replied, his gaze dropping to the floor. Though he had been dismissed, he remained seated, his shoulders tightening in hesitation.

“What is it?” Sagiri asked, familiar enough with her student to know when something was troubling him. He inhaled gently, considering his words before speaking.

“I’ve been studying medicine for quite some time now,” he said, his head lowered respectfully. “But you haven’t allowed me to tend to an actual patient. Am I doing something wrong?”

“Do you think you’re ready?” Sagiri said, her brow rising. It was unusual for him to question her methods—he must have felt quite passionately about his concern. Shichi looked up at her question, his expression set with assurance.

“I believe I am.”

“Very well,” she said. “The next patient will be yours. You will have one chance to prove that your confidence is not unfounded.”

“Thank you, Master,” he said, bowing low, barely able to hide the grateful anticipation in his voice.

#

It was a week later that his chance arrived. A tengu had arrived from the nearest village, traveling an entire day in search of proper medical attention. He lay weakly on the infirmary floor, exhausted from both his journey and ailments. Without a word, Sagiri gestured for Shichi to begin his diagnosis. The young monk knelt beside his patient, checking his pulse and tongue as he questioned the villager on his symptoms.

“How is your appetite?” he asked, noticing that the man was rather thin.

“I haven’t felt much like eating,” the tengu answered. “And when I do, I just throw up.”

“Do you feel any pain here?” Shichi felt along the man’s abdomen. It seemed unnaturally bloated, and his patient winced at the contact.

“Y-yes, a bit. It aches.”

Shichi inhaled softly, taking a moment to consider each symptom, as well as his patient’s constitution.

“Well?” Sagiri asked, still observing from her place by the door.

“He has a sunken pulse and a pale tongue. It’s an inflammation of the stomach lining,” he said, closing his eyes to think. “I would prescribe rikkunshito for his nausea, goshuyuto for the vomiting, and kamikihito for the inflammation.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” he replied with a nod.

Sagiri fell silent, her expression unreadable. After a moment, she slid the infirmary door open.

“In the hall,” was all she said, gesturing that he exit with her. He swallowed, wondering what she had to say that required such privacy. Breath short, he got to his feet and followed his master out of the room.

“Shichi,” she said, closing the door behind them. “Tell me your mistake.”

He looked up quickly, eyes wide as his fears began to solidify.

“Was it my diagnosis?” he asked, stifling the shudder in his voice. “Perhaps . . . his pulse . . .”

“Your diagnosis was fine. There was something you forgot—something I told you when you first began to study kampo.”

“I . . .” Shichi desperately searched the far reaches of his memory. Finally, his head dropped, unable to look his master in the eyes. “I don’t remember.”

“You prescribed three different formulas for one ailment. If there were to be a reaction, it would be impossible to determine the source. Daisaikoto would have addressed all of his symptoms with only eight ingredients. Your suggestion would require eighteen—you’ve doubled the chances of complications.”

Shichi had nothing to say, motionless as he took in her words.

“You may not always have access to such abundant herbs. There will be times that you’ll have one ingredient—if you’re lucky. You cannot rely on complex formulas for every single symptom,” Sagiri continued, her tone steady. “I’m afraid you were wrong. You’re not ready.”

Shichi closed his eyes, feeling little but the sinking of his heart. The hall was silent as he considered his next words.

“Then what shall I do now?”

“You must continue to do your best,” she said. “And never show me anything less.”

“I understand,” Shichi said with a low nod. “I won’t forget again.”

“No,” Sagiri said, her posture as straight as her voice. “You won’t.”

#

Sagiri had been right—in the half-century since his first diagnosis, he had never forgotten her words. Healing was more than the simple memorization of formulas. There were nuances between each patient and symptom—the hot and cold, weak and rigid. Forgetting these could lead to tragedy—to everything he was working to prevent. The memory of that day was vivid as he looked down at his selection of herbs on the table. At the temple, he had maintained a supply of more than a hundred varieties of roots, leaves, and stems. Now, he had six.

Shichi sighed as he placed a few pieces of dried ginger into a drawer. Luckily, Fumie had planted a patch the previous year, making them ready for harvest in the winter. It was still too cold to plant many of the herbs he preferred to use, limiting his options to a pitiable few. The poor selection, however, wasn’t the cause of his low mood—it was the fact that most of them were simply going to waste. Many weeks had passed since his arrival in Osaka, and the only life he had saved was that of a murderer. The bandits had remained in the safety of the inn, not daring to venture out into the hands of the law.

“Shichi!” came a song-like voice from the first floor. The innkeeper was calling him. He placed the last of his herbs into a linen bag, leaving the room to see what she needed.

He found her near the entrance, standing beside a pair of yokai. They were tanuki—raccoon dogs that, much like humans, stood upright on two legs. One was an old female, using both hands to support the elbow of a younger male. He had clearly gone through some kind of trouble—a section of his fur was charred black and two of his teeth had gone missing. Despite this, he still managed to maintain a wily grin. Both tanuki appeared to have plenty of winter fat, their bellies round and their pelts thick with fur.

“Is it true?” asked the woman as he descended the stairs. “Are you a doctor?”

“I am,” Shichi said, surprised to be called so by a stranger. “Can I help you?”

“My son was playing pranks on humans again. They were so frightened that they knocked him right into the hearth,” she explained, gesturing to the teenager’s arm. The stench of burnt fur wafted beneath Shichi’s nostrils as he took a closer look. Sure enough, much of the fur was either scorched or missing entirely.

“I see,” the tengu said, impressed to find that the boy wasn’t crying—it looked quite painful. “I’ll do what I can. Please, have a seat.”

“Oh, thank you!” The mother’s round face brightened with a smile.

“Ah, but first,” Fumie cut in, holding up a hand to stop them as she gave the boy a once-over. “If you’d like to come in, you’ll need to . . . put some clothes on.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the tanuki said, closing her eyes. Her chest filled as she took in a deep breath, and a moment later a plain kimono had materialized over her body. The cloth fluttered as it settled around her legs, followed by a pair of pants for her son. Shichi tried not to stare. He had grown accustomed to Chiyo’s shifting from fox to human, but had never seen the formulation of inanimate objects. Not wasting a moment, the pair seated themselves on the floor in the sitting room.

“It looks like the burn didn’t go deep into your skin,” Shichi said as he pressed a cool, wet cloth to the damaged area. “Luckily, I have some chickweed and aloe in the garden.”

“Chickweed?” Fumie said, her voice laced with disappointment. Though her head was in the sitting room, her body had remained in the foyer. “I was going to use that for seven-herb porridge.”

“Isn’t that for Human Day?” Shichi asked. “You know we’re not human, right?”

“I know, I know. Well, this is more important,” Fumie said. “Would you like me to fetch some?”

“Please,” he replied gratefully. The innkeeper’s head wound back through the doorway, returning to her body as she headed toward the garden. He turned his attention back to his patient—it was his first time speaking with tanuki aside from brief interactions in the restaurant.

“So, a prank, was it?” Shichi’s eyes narrowed in amusement. The tanuki nodded proudly, then was promptly whacked on the head by his mother.

“Ow.” He rubbed the spot she’d hit. “Mother, I’m already injured.”

“Goro! I told you not to go near those humans again!” she said.

“The looks on their faces was worth it!” the boy said, holding his belly as he laughed. He looked up at Shichi with excitement, eager to elaborate on his story. “I shifted to the form of a fish—this big! And right before they could put me in the pot, I looked at them and said ‘How could you eat me? I have a family!’”

Shichi swallowed his laughter, not wanting to incur the wrath of the mother. Instead, he cooled the cloth with fresh water, returning it to the burnt skin.

“You can turn into a fish?” the tengu asked, skeptical despite what he’d seen with their clothing.

“Of course I can!” Goro said. “I can turn into anything. Tanuki are the best shape-shifters there are. Much better than kitsune!”

“What?” came a voice from the top of the stairs. Though it was a single word, it hit each one of them like a boulder. The sound was followed by a series of stomps as the kitsune descended the stairs, appearing in the doorway with folded arms.

“Care to repeat that?” She glared thorns at the young tanuki.

“You heard me, lady.” He grinned back at her.

“You little—” Chiyo muttered and pushed her sleeves up. She paused, and a moment later had shifted into a white tanuki. Her body rounded out considerably, her narrowed eyes still lined with red. It was Shichi’s first time seeing her in any form aside from a fox or a human, and he stared speechlessly at the new shape. Not to be outdone, Goro slipped out of the tengu’s grasp, his fur rippling before transforming as well. Shichi choked. He had copied Chiyo’s form—her human form—exactly.

“Chiyo, I’m trying to work here,” Shichi said, then shook his head and turned to the proper Chiyo—who was still in the shape of a tanuki. They both ignored him, butting foreheads as they spoke.

Chiyo’s round ears twitched. “You don’t look anything like me.”

“You’re the wrong color. And you can’t even hide your red makeup,” Goro said, still smiling. His mother didn’t cut in, her expression showing a hint of pride as she watched.

“It’s not makeup!” She bared her teeth before shifting once again—this time to a tengu. Shichi faltered at the sight of her. Aside from her white feathers, she bore a perfect resemblance to a typical female. He froze in place, greatly unsettled at how attractive she had suddenly become.

“Chiyo, don’t do that! It’s disturbing,” Shichi said. “And he’s injured, I need to—”

“You’ve still got your makeup,” Goro said, tugging down his lower eyelid. Just as Chiyo moved in the throttle the boy, he popped into the shape of a cooking pot, clattering as he hit the floor.

“No!” She slammed her fist on the floor in frustration. The winner was clear—no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t possibly match the tanuki’s abilities.

“What on earth is going on in here?” Fumie asked, blinking in the doorway. In her hands was a basket of freshly picked herbs, as well as a mortar and pestle. There was a heavy pause before both contenders returned to their normal forms—Goro with a grin, and Chiyo with a scowl. Shichi sighed, relieved that they had finally calmed down.

“Thank you,” Shichi said, accepting the herbs to prepare in a poultice. Having had quite enough of both his patient and his friend, he instead turned to look at the tanuki’s mother. “Ah, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you know I was a doctor?”

“Oh, that’s simple,” she said with a wave of her hand. “My husband drinks here all the time. He told us this crazy story about some bandits and insisted that there was a tengu physician here. We almost didn’t believe him.”

“Well,” Shichi said pleasantly, “I’m glad that you did.”

Before long, the burn was tended and wrapped, as well as the boy’s scuffs and scrapes. His mother thanked the monk profusely, promising to tell everyone she knew about his services. As he refused to accept payment, she instead opted to purchase a rather large cask of sake from the inn, hefting it with both arms to bring back to her husband.

“Remember,” Shichi said as he sent them off. “Don’t touch the blisters.”

“I won’t!” Goro called, waving as he and his mother stepped out into the alley in their human forms. “Thank you!”

“Good riddance,” Chiyo mumbled, only to be elbowed by the tengu at her side. “Ow, what?”

“I learned something today,” Shichi said as he watched the tanuki disappear around the corner.

“Oh? And what’s that?” Chiyo said with a patronizing smirk.

“That you have the maturity level of a teenage boy.”

“Watch it, or I’ll turn into a pretty tengu lady again.”

“Who said you were pretty?” Shichi waved off the thought but made sure to avoid her eyes.

“You thought I was.” Chiyo’s grin became even more smug. “Your feathers got all puffy like they did when you saw Aki.”

Shichi immediately bristled. “That was in fear!”

“You’re doing it again! Oh, you’re so embarrassed!” Chiyo cooed, placing her hands on the sides of her face.

“I am not!” was all he said before turning back to the inn, hurriedly shutting the door behind him. Chiyo remained outside the entrance, her terrible laughter carrying all the way down the empty alley.