十六 Part 16 (Caravan)

Awaji’s coast was consumed with wind. Chiyo hadn’t wasted a moment returning to the form of a fox, nor had she waited long to perch on the tengu’s shoulders. Shichi was glad to be out of the boat. Whether it was his inexperience with the sea, or perhaps the ferryman’s reckless navigation, his stomach was still turning from the waves. The wind whipped his feathers, sending a few flying loose behind him.

They trekked along the shore, following its curve north past rocky slopes and crooked pines. For a moment, Shichi watched them sway, grateful for a moment of silence.

As he considered this, he realized it was too silent. Chiyo hadn’t complained about anything for nearly an hour.

“Are you asleep?” Shichi’s eyes narrowed as he looked sideways.

“I was,” Chiyo said, stifling a yawn.

“If I’m going to be doing all the walking, you could at least be conscious for it.”

“I’m not the one who wanted to wake up at dawn,” she mumbled with an irritated flop of her tail. Yawning once more, she buried her nose beneath a paw to fall back asleep. Shichi shook his head, giving the trees one last look before turning toward the tree-covered hills.

It was late in the day when Chiyo finally awoke, squinting up through the dappled light. They were deep in a pine forest, walking alongside a human road. Though Shichi had survived the town, he still lacked the courage to travel out in the open. He remained behind the cover of trees, keeping an eye on the road from a distance.

“So, what’s for dinner?” the kitsune asked, scratching behind her ear. “And don’t say roots.”

“Ro—” Shichi fell silent, his feathers rising in embarrassment. Chiyo groaned.

“I’m so tired of vegetables,” she said, hopping off of his shoulder onto the cold ground. “Let me go hunt. If I don’t eat some meat soon—”

“We don’t have time for that,” Shichi said. “Zaisei could have followed us here.”

“I wonder,” Chiyo said, her voice eerily low. “What tengu tastes like.”

“Fine,” he said. “Go. Just don’t take too long.”

Chiyo perked at his words, her expression brightening as she bounded off into the trees.

“And don’t steal anything!” he called, hoping that she could still hear him. Shichi watched her go, unsure if he had seen her kick up her heels or if it was a trick of the light. He decided that it was probably for the best; he was starting to ache and could use a short rest.

He crouched down at the base of a tree, rolling his shoulder in its socket. Chiyo wasn’t necessarily heavy, but her weight was starting to take a toll on his posture. As he stretched, his eyes fell on a single black feather in the grass. His first thought was that stress was causing him to molt out of season—both here and back in the town. Upon closer inspection, however, he realized that it wasn’t his. He turned it between his fingers, his eyes widening.

There must have been other tengu nearby.

Shichi pushed himself to his feet, dusting his knees before taking another look around. Knowing Chiyo, she would probably pay no heed to his request, taking all the time she wanted to find a meal. Overcome by curiosity, and perhaps a bit of longing, he set through the trees to find the feather’s owner.

Through a tangle of hanging branches, his eyes stopped on a sheen of black. Heart skipping, he slipped past the trunks, catching the outline of a figure kneeling by the road. He made out the silhouette of a beak and a crest of feathers—it was indeed a tengu that crouched before him.

“Excuse me,” he said, approaching through the trees. “Which village—”

“Quiet!” the tengu hissed, holding her hand up to wave him down. He lowered himself, puzzled at her response. It was only after a closer look that he realized she was watching the road. Her eyes were drawn intently toward the south, barely breathing as she waited. Soon, he could hear the sound of oxen, their hooves clopping steadily on the dusty path. The creak of a cart followed, its wheels heavy with the weight of its cargo. Shichi tensed, his eyes falling on the sword that was gripped in the tengu’s hand.

She was a—

“Now!” she shouted, charging forward from the bushes. Out of the trees dropped four other tengu, overtaking the caravan from all sides. They were armed with swords, each one of them clearly trained in their use. They cut through the traveling party in uniform motion, their bodies black shadows against the winter sky. The humans fell one after another. They dropped to the ground in arcs of red, their silken garments crumpling in pools of color beneath them. The panicked bellows of oxen were barely audible over the pained screams of their owners.

There were only two guards, both clashing blades with the bandits and neither accustomed to the speed of a tengu. Outskilled, they went down before Shichi could even stand.

He stared, mouth parted, his chest twisting into dry knots. There was only one man left—a merchant. He backed up against the cart, his hands lifted in submission.

“Please, don’t, I—” he said, nearly tripping over the hem of his robe. His words went ignored as a bandit approached him, wiping the blood from her sword with the cloth of her belt. She was the same Shichi had seen at the side of the road—she must have been their leader.

As her blade came down toward the human’s throat, a crack filled the air. Her steel had met the length of a shakujo, it’s edge nicking into the wooden handle.

“What the hell are you doing?” she shouted at Shichi, who had placed himself between her and the human. He didn’t move, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he held the position of his staff.

“Move, or I’ll kill both of you!” she said, twisting her sword free. He remained in his spot, rotating the handle of the staff to point the metal head toward the ground. It clinked as it fell into place, the rings settling against one another.

Eyes flashing, she charged. Her sword swiped the air, once again meeting the wooden handle. Shichi arced the staff sideways, pushing the blade aside. Instead of attacking, the monk only repositioned himself, never once removing his eyes from the bandit. His shoulders turned into her second attack, narrowly dodging the blade’s path. The wide road echoed with the sounds of slashes and parries, trailed by the rattling of metal rings. He realized, as the katana clacked against wood once more, that her threat had been hollow—she wasn’t trying to kill him. She had moved like the wind through her targets, snuffing the trained guards like mere candles. If she had wanted him dead, he would already be rotting.

“He’s getting away!” came the voice of another bandit, drawing the others attention to the human. The merchant had seized the opportunity, ducking behind the cart before making a break for the woods.

“Stop him!” their leader said, finally drawing her eyes away from the monk. A knife whistled through the air, and a moment later the human toppled to the dusty road.

“No!” Shichi shouted. He turned toward the fallen man, only to have his path was cut off by the points of four swords.

“Are you crazy?” their leader hissed as she stepped up behind him. “What are you doing here? Where did you come from?”

“How could you?” Shichi asked, slowly glancing back at her.

“What?”

“You killed them. Why?”

“Because they’re humans.” She sheathed her sword in one smooth movement.

“That’s not a reason,” Shichi said, his eyes narrow as he turned to face her. His breathing was strained, both from their fight as from the burden of what he had seen. He had always lived around other tengu, in his village and in the temple, but he had never seen such cruelty from his own kind.

“It’s enough for me,” the tengu said with a sneer, her yellow eyes boring into his own.

“But they were barely armed. They never hurt anyone—they were just passing through.”

“What is wrong with you?” she asked once more, her voice strained in sheer disbelief.

“He’s a monk,” another bandit whispered, leaning in as he spoke.

“Oh,” she said, her expression dropping. “Of course.”

“You can’t keep doing this,” Shichi said, swiping the air with his hand. “It’s just going to strengthen their hate for us. At this rate, we’ll never have peace between—”

“Who said I want peace?” She growled as she spoke. “You’ve never had to deal with humans up in . . . whatever temple you came from. You don’t know what they’re really like.”

Shichi couldn’t find the words to answer with. He breathed in, letting his eyes fall on one of the human bodies. He wondered who the man’s family was—if he was a husband, a father—what sort of food he had liked the most, and what made him laugh the hardest.

“They’re humans,” the bandit repeated.

“They’re people.”

“Fine,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Keep living your fantasy. We’re going to stay here, in the real world.”

She turned away from him, commanding the others with curt gestures. They began to gather the oxen and cargo from the cart, leaving the bodies untouched. As they left the roadside, their leader gave Shichi one last glare before going.

“Watch yourself,” she muttered, then disappeared into the woods.

The monk was alone on the road. Splintered wood and stained cloth were scattered at his feet. His staff lowered, its handle now covered with thin nicks and cuts. He had failed. Shichi wondered how he could have been so naïve—to think that his own kind were merely victims, that the famed skill of tengu swordsmen was simply a matter of discipline and self defense. The monks of his temple had practiced, above all things, tolerance and understanding. He had forgotten about the outside world—how it was a place of fear and resentment. How, just as surely as the sun rose in the sky, even his own kind could bring pain and destruction.

His thoughts were interrupted by a groan. Shichi straightened, turning toward the prone merchant. The man’s back rose and fell with labored breathing—he was alive.

Hurrying across the road, Shichi knelt at the man’s side. The knife was still in his back, sending rivulets of red down his side. Blood was spreading beneath him, seeping into the dusty road. Forgetting his inner conflict, Shichi began to tend the wound. He removed the knife in one smooth motion, quickly blocking the flow of blood with a fold of cloth.

“You’re a strange tengu,” the man said, his eyelids drooping with the loss of

blood.

“I know.” Shichi looped the torn strip of fabric around the cut. Just as he began to tie the ends, a new sound filled the air. He could hear the clatter of steel and armor, riding on the approach of hurried footsteps. His first thought was that the bandits had returned, but a glance to the side told him otherwise. They were human.

“Check for survivors,” came the voice of a man, dressed in the chain armor of a policeman.

“Sir, they left one behind,” called another man, positioning his sasumata as he approached the tengu. The weapon was a long, wooden pole, its end forking into two curves of iron. Shichi ignored the instinct to run—if he didn’t finish tying the bandage, the man would surely bleed to death. His hands shook as he attempted a knot, fumbling with the cloth as he tried to focus. Before he could try again, he was pinned to the ground. The weapon hooked around his neck, forcing his face into the dirt path.

“Take him alive—we’ll make an example of this one.”

As they bound his arms, Shichi looked up to see the bandage falling loose around the merchant’s torso. The pool of blood grew, the dark stain blossoming over his robes.

“Please, you have to let me—” Shichi said, struggling in vain against his bonds.

“Let’s go.”

“Wait,” he said, his heels digging into the road as they attempted to pull him off. His eyes met the merchant’s. He watched as the human’s pupils trembled, searching his own before falling still.

“No!” His body froze in the hold of two policemen. They wrenched his arms, giving him one last look at the dead man’s eyes before tearing him away.

#

It was evening when Shichi was finally thrown into a holding cell at the edge of the region’s town. The space was cramped and dark, still carrying the odor of its previous tenants. His side hit the dirt floor, drawing a groan from his bruised throat.

For the past hour, he had been interrogated. They had repeatedly demanded the location of the bandits’ hideout, refusing to believe he had no affiliation with their order. His entire body ached from the flogging, with one eye swollen entirely shut. He swallowed the blood that had filled his mouth. As he took in a breath, a trail trickled down, leaving red droplets on the floor of the cell.

“Should we give him a trial?” asked one of the policemen as he locked the wood-barred door.

“Trials are for people,” the other said. “We’ll execute him in the morning. Publicly.”

The men exited the dank structure, leaving the tengu alone in his cell. His pushed himself upright, his elbows trembling with effort. They had left his wrists bound, making the attempt all the more difficult. The air was musty and cold—the only light came from a thin window across the walkway. The space was entirely empty, lacking any implements for rest or hygiene. It might as well have been a stable.

Shichi attempted to straighten himself, cringing as the bones in his spine cracked with the angle. His body weakened against the wall as he considered his position. The bars were made of dense wood, thicker than his legs and ten times as strong. He couldn’t fit between them, and the key had left with the policeman. There was no way out—for all of the studying and reading he had done since childhood, his mind was proving useless. If he couldn’t escape before morning, he was sure to die.

He had heard of human execution methods in passing—of the boiling, burning, and beheading. Closing his eyes, he wondered which of these he would be subjected to. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he might be blessed with a painless decapitation. He wondered if Chiyo was looking for him. Kitsune had a superb sense of smell—it might be possible for her to find where he’d been taken. On the other hand, she might have eaten too much and then taken a long nap, completely oblivious to his absence.

A howl pierced the air. It splintered the silence, drawing his attention toward the window. His initial assumption of a mere wolf was dashed by the sounds of shouts and steel. He could hear the guards outside calling to attack, followed by groans and thumps. The outer door was thrown open, rattling as it hit the wall. Shichi could only stare as a figure approached the cell, unlocking the door with a rusty click.

“Zaisei.” Shichi gawked as the man stepped out of the shadows.

“You are infuriating!” the hunter shouted, throwing the shakujo down to the monk’s knees. It hit the ground with a clank, yet Shichi’s eyes remained locked forward.

“What?” Shichi whispered.

“It’s like you’re trying to get killed by everything under the sun,” Zaisei said, his teeth bared in anger. “Except me!”

Shichi couldn’t reply, barely even able to breathe as his rival berated him in the narrow cell.

“You have one day!” the hunter said, slamming a knife into the wall. It buried itself into the wood with a thunk, the blade stuck halfway into the surface. The hunter gave Shichi one last glare before storming out, his boots stamping on the rickety floorboards. Finally, the tengu exhaled.

“ . . . you forgot your knife,” he murmured, though the hunter was already out of sight. Silence had returned to the jail, with only the creaking of the broken door daring to endure. With his shoulder on the wall, Shichi forced himself to stand. He winced, ignoring the cry of his bruised ribs. The knife gleamed in the moonlight, beckoning him without words. Limping forward, he lifted his bound hands, scraping the rope along the exposed blade. A moment later, it snapped, freeing his wrists from their binds. He wasted no more time, snatching up his staff before hurrying out through the open door.

There were no guards to chase him as he made his escape—Zaisei had left every one of them unconscious along the road. Shichi stayed beneath the shelter of the trees as he made his way back. He had never been happier to smell the fresh night air.

When he found Chiyo, she was darting along the road, her breath short and frantic. She stopped to smell a footprint in the dirt before snapping up to see the tengu himself.

“There you are!” she said, her tails puffed in agitation.

“Hello,” he replied pleasantly, relieved that she hadn’t forgotten him.

“What happened to you?” the kitsune asked, tilting her head at his swollen eye and tousled feathers.

“Why, were you worried about me?” he said as he crouched to meet her eye level.

“I was angry!” she said, bumping her head against his hand. “You’re a hypocrite, telling me not to waste time and then running off somewhere.”

“I’m sorry,” Shichi said, turning his hand to scratch behind her large ears. “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

The scratching seemed to sate the kitsune—she closed her eyes, leaning shamelessly into his fingers.

“Fine,” she mumbled. “I guess.”

“Good,” Shichi said, giving her a nod. “I hope you ate, because we have a lot of running to do.”