INTERLUDE
On the Banks of the Soko
28^th Day of the 3^rd Month
Kasuga 5
Common Year 1593

The streets of the capital were choked with people. They swarmed the streets in tight knots like many schools of fish.

Everyday folk bartered and haggled at markets.

Merchants shouted out in front of their storefronts, singing out their prices and wares for the people to hear.

Samurai with their two swords, crossed over bridges in close-knit groups on their way to their sword schools, returning from some errand or another.

Nobles of the Imperial court had their attendants lead their oxcarts from one of their many residences to another, or to the palace, or the residence of some mistress—or wherever myriad of places where they could be going.

Monks passed quietly amongst the crowds, going to their temples, or their dojos. Some sat by the side of the road, living a life of poverty and travel, preaching the word of the gods to the people.

Women from the pleasure district, mistresses of their own establishments and proprietors of some of the greatest geisha houses in the capital advertised their women, their sake, and their accommodations to weary travellers and rich nobles alike.

Children played in the streets, chasing dogs, cats, and each other in some non-sensical game that only they could understand. They brandished stick swords and naginata made from fallen branches. They knew nothing of real war, but they played at it like it was all a game. To these kids it was. It was a time of peace, and it had been for a while. These kids knew no more about actual warfare than the samurai and swordsmen that passed them by.

Judging by the buds on the cherry trees, soon it would be time for the cherry blossoms to bloom, and viewing parties would be all the rage once more. People would set up along the banks of the Soko, or in their own private gardens and courtyards to watch the blossoms change colour. Food and sake would be served, and in the upper-class households, poetry would be read, and dances would be performed with much pomp and tradition.

Amid the throngs of people stood a blind monk, and his young ward. The two were a solitary island in the sea of masses. The ward explaining to Kakuichi the state of the cherry blossoms at the riverbank.

Kakuichi had finally found the perfect place to set up for his performance.

He instructed his assistant, a young monk, to unroll the reed matt beneath one of said cherry trees, by the edge of one of the canals that branched off the main river Soko. His biwa was tuned and prepared for the recitation of his tale. The stage was set, and the weather was clear as fine Junmai sake.

Kakuichi was a biwa hoshi, and one of the greatest of his line, from the renowned lineage going back to renowned Yukinaga.

He ensnared his soon-to-be audience with a few strums of his plectrum against the strings. The twang of his music immediately drew looks, and some in the crowd grew silent. They knew a performance was to follow. They would not hear the full story; not today, perhaps not at all. Once the day was done, Kakuichi would move on to his next destination, ever roving across the land, telling his stories of religious and historical value, meant to impart wisdom and knowledge unto those who heard them. Besides, the recitation of entire chapters, let alone entire books, could take quite some time if done properly and with care.

Kakuichi strummed his biwa a few more times. He played slow and methodical, building tension, setting the scene for his epic tale. It was a tale that many knew by word of mouth, but no one alive now had lived to see it. Though, it had not been so long that events had faded into obscurity.

“Gather all and listen to my tale,
As it has been handed down to me.
I am Kakuichi, student of Shobutsu,
From the illustrious line of Yukinaga.”

His playing picked up a bit, filling the pause between his words. The full tempo was not yet achieved, for he was still in the preamble. The obligatory introduction continued.

“This is the story of a world torn apart by war.
Of a world soaked in blood and fuelled by vengeance.
This was once our beautiful, peaceful Yamato.
It was once a landed divided,
broken by greed and fractured by war.
A peace shattered by two brothers, and courtly intrigue,
That poisoned our land for centuries, with no end in sight.
This is the story of how that age of war was ended.
A story of good and evil, and everything in between.
It is a story of heroes and villains,
A story of kami, and yōkai,
But most importantly, it is a story about people.
Much has been gained in pursuit of this age of peace,
but even more was lost.”

The strumming picked up again, gaining speed like a trotting horse. The tension had been built, and a crowd had gathered. The preamble now finished, Kakuichi began to sing his story. He would alternate between recitation and singing, playing the biwa all throughout.

Then, the biwa playing slowed, and stopped. A pause.

Kakuichi smiled. If he could see, he would surely see the enthralled faces of his audience, hooked like a fish on the line. He resumed his playing, slow again, and began to sing.

“As sure as the temple bells ring out,
To announce the coming of the dusk and dawn.
As sure as the bloom of cherry blossoms,
Mark the start of a new season.
So too is the fall of tyrants assured.
The arrogant are nothing before the will of the kami.
The proud and mighty do not endure.
We are given but fifty years in this mortal realm,
Yet it is like a dream on a warm spring night,
Compared to the eternity of the beyond.
All things born into this world,
Must eventually perish.
We are all but dust before the wind.”

The night was impossibly dark, as if all the light of the moon and stars had been swallowed up by some great yōkai and extinguished. But in the house of the Muroka family, it was far from a dismal and dark time.

Much commotion was being made over the celebration of the Third Night. Rice cakes had been prepared in various shapes; maple leaves, sakura petals, carp—some even sharped like nightingales nesting atop a tier of rice cakes. Plum wine had been brought in from the Ishiki islands off the southern coast of Yamato.

The Muroka family could afford the finest for this, most special of occasions, and the finest they would have.

Though they were not obscenely wealthy, or nobility, Muroka Kinzaemon was a merchant. One who had done well for himself over the years. He had inherited the healthy trading business from his father, Ginzaemon, who had inherited it from his father, and so on, for at least six generations.

Of course, it wasn’t hard for a merchant to make money when they lived on the border of the Empire and the Shogunate. Despite official trade embargoes enacted by both governments during the early years of the Sengoku, trade continued between unofficial channels along the border. All trade was funnelled through small border towns by “night merchants.”

In the day, they sold their regular wares, but at night, they would smuggle goods across the border to send to the far reaches of both nations. Soldiers, kebiishi, and government officials often looked the other way. Some in exchange for bribes, and others because they too were customers of the night merchants and would look the other way in exchange for the right of first refusal on the best goods. It was hard not to find someone who didn’t patronize a night merchant in the Shogunate or the Empire, even indirectly.

Taiki was not a large town, but it had been kind to Kinzaemon and his family, and now he would have a son-in-law that would only add to his family’s fortune. This boy was the son of a rival merchant, of the Kawano family. This coming marriage would combine their two families, and thus their business, and increase the fortunes of both lines going forward.

Kinzaemon prayed to the gods daily at his local shrine, thanking them for their magnanimous blessings they had bestowed upon him and his family. He spent as lavishly on commissioning prayers to be read daily in honour of Daikokuten, the god of luck and fortune, as he had on the Third Night celebration. Kinzaemon had even donated large sums to the god’s main shrine in the city of Shirokawa.

Yet for all his prayers and donations, Kinzaemon sat and sipped his tea, mulling over his fortunes with a somewhat troubled mind. For as thankful as he was, his success made him uneasy. A great rise always precipitated a greater fall, said the wisdom of the ancestors. Prosperity was not perpetual, and ruin was always just around the corner.

This lesson had been reflected in the history of the very land itself. The Empire of Ise had once been known as the Empire of Yamato and had once ruled the four islands and six regions with unquestioned supremacy. Their prosperity was limitless, and the power of the emperor undeniable. The gods had given him this land, and none could take it from him. There was prosperity and there was peace.

Now, Yamato was a land ravaged by war, torn apart by factionalism and greed, and peace had been but a fleeting dream for nearly four and a half centuries.

Kinzaemon’s wife, Kiyo, entered the room, closing the sliding door before seating herself beside her husband. Her face was troubled.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

Kiyo’s look was grave indeed. “It’s well into the hour of the Tanuki[1], and is almost time for the bells to toll the hour of the Tiger. He’s very late.”

Kinzaemon felt something in his chest tighten but remained his outward composure. Surely, this would not be the moment his fortunes ended? “Perhaps he’s been accosted by the kebiishi. We’ve had some new members sent here recently; they may think he’s a night merchant—which he is. He’ll have it sorted out and arrive soon enough. Yes, I’m sure of it.”

Kiyo was not convinced. “What if he means to shame us, and our daughter? His family has always rivalled ours, and perhaps this whole courtship has been one long plot to disgrace and ruin us.”

No. It couldn’t possibly be. Kinzaemon buried his doubt. “Calm, Kiyo. You’ll see. He’ll come, and in the morning we shall celebrate our new son-in-law with rice cakes and plum wine as tradition dictates. I’ve spared no expense on this celebration.”

Kiyo’s face did not change. “We shall see. I have ensured that we are to be notified should he arrive.”

“Do you intend to stay up all night, my dear?”

“If I must,” she replied tersely.

Kinzaemon knew better than to argue with his wife. There was no stopping her once her mind was made up. “Very well. Do as you please. I, however, am going to turn in for the night. Come morning, you’ll see, my words will ring true.”

The floorboards outside of the room creaked. The light patter of a young women’s footsteps betrayed the arrival of one of their young servants. “Mistress?”

Kinzaemon recognized the voice of Yoko, a young girl who was in service to his daughter. He did not respond but listened intently to his wife’s conversation.

“Yes?” replied Kiyo.

“Someone has been seen entering the house through the eastern pavilion,” Yoko replied. Her voice was meek, nervous.

The merchant smiled like a kitsune who had just beguiled an unsuspecting young man.

“Thank you, Yoko. Please keep me updated throughout the night, I have no intent on sleeping until the night is done.”

“Yes, mistress. Shall I bring some hot water for tea?”

“Please.”

Yoko disappeared, her small feet pattering away towards the outbuilding were the kitchen was.

“What did I say? See, he’s arrived. Late, but still here.”

Kiyo frowned.

“Are you not at ease yet?’ asked Kinzaemon, exasperated by his wife’s worry. In truth, her anxieties only exacerbated his own fears.

A blood-curdling scream erupted from somewhere across the estate. Kiyo and Kinzaemon froze, and he could feel his blood run cold.

His wife gave him a look, and Kinzaemon knew what he had to do. He gathered his courage, and pulled a simple, unadorned tanto from within the folds of his robes. He was a merchant, not a warrior or a soldier, but he always made sure to always keep a tanto with him in case he was accosted during his work as a night merchant.

Kinzaemon quietly crept to the sliding door, and slid it open just a crack. He pressed his eye to the slit and looked out into the hallway surrounding the room where he and his wife made their quarters. His daughter was in the eastern pavilion, and they in the centre.

Confident that the coast was clear, and it was safe, Kinzaemon exited his room and made for the enclosed hallway to the eastern pavilion located towards the back of the estate. He walked ever so carefully and prayed to whatever god would listen that his footsteps did not make a sound.

There had not been a scream since the initial cry. In fact, and eerie silence had descended upon the estate and its grounds. No one had come running over to get him, nor had he heard footsteps move towards the eastern pavilion to check on his daughter. Not the guards who watched the estate, nor any of her daughter’s handmaidens or any of the servants. It struck Kinzaemon as quite odd—and he didn’t like it.

He finally reached the eastern pavilion, and the eerie silence grew ever quieter. Worse still, the oil lamps that were normally kept lit at night to allow those walking the halls a tiny mote of visibility were completely extinguished. The servants were under express orders to keep the wicks trimmed, but burning, and the oil replenished.

The merchant knelt and checked one of the maps and confirmed his fear. The wick was trimmed short, but not cut, and the oil had been sufficiently filled. This did not bode well.

Fear pooled in his gut as he approached his daughter’s room, and for a moment, Kinzaemon thought he could see his breath. But he wasn’t dreaming. He noticed that as his heart began to race, and his nerves frayed, his breathing became more laboured. His breath escaped his mouth  as a cloud of fog, as if it was the deep of winter—an odd phenomenon for the middle of summer.

Finally, he reached his daughter’s door. Kinzaemon froze. “Yuki?” he called, in a voice that was barely a whisper. Fear had taken his heart for its own.

When his daughter did not respond, he called again, a little louder. But still his daughter did answer. He looked around him, hoping, perhaps, that this was all some illusion, and soon one of his daughter’s maidservants would appear from the outer chambers within her room and wake him from his stupor.

But no one came.

No maidservant.

No daughter.

No guard.

Kinzaemon was here in the eastern pavilion alone.

He raised his dagger and pulled his prayer beads from within the folds of his robes. His hands shook as he prayed to the Lady of Mercy. With his prayer complete, Kinzaemon shuffled the beads so that they wrapped around his hand and the dagger, and slowly slid open the door to his daughter’s room.

The sight that he bore witness to maid him cry out in terror.

Blood splattered the walls and ceiling, dripping like moisture in a cavern. It pooled across the floor, mostly under the crumpled head that was now the cold corpse of his daughter, Yuki.

Kinzaemon wailed, and threw aside his beads and dagger, rushing to his daughter’s side. She was beyond help, he could see this, but he could not think rationally.

He knelt beside his daughter, grabbed her, and gently laid her across his lap. He cried; sobbed. His dear daughter had been murdered—mangled! Her face was smashed in, and upon further inspection, her head had been turned completely around so that it was backwards on her body.

Kinzaemon wanted to vomit, but he managed to keep down his dinner, gasping for air between the sobs. He rocked back and forth, cradling the cold body of his daughter in his arms.

Suddenly, a scream erupted from somewhere across the estate. It sounded like it was coming from the shinden, and the thought made Kinzaemon’s heart pound faster. Despite his trepidation, he would not let fear and hesitation stop him from saving his wife where he had failed his daughter.

Kinzaemon laid his daughter down, now thoroughly soaked through with her blood, and said a short prayer for her. He entreated the gods and the Lady of Mercy to care for his daughter in the afterlife and see her well into the next, if it was not yet her time to ascend.

“Namu.”

Steeling his nerves, Kinzaemon grabbed his beads and his tanto, and marched back to the shinden. The fear had been replaced by a burning rage. Whoever had killed his daughter would pay for what they had taken from the family. With his blade held aloft, he raced through the hisashi and into the living quarters where he had left his wife.

For the second time that night, Kinzaemon was not prepared for what he was going to find.

At the opposite end of his living quarters, he saw a dark and shadowy figure. Darker than ink. At first glance, it seemed to be made of a substance like ink, but with a thicker consistency. It was hard to make out the shape of the creature, but it was large, muscular, and monstrous. It had two devilish horns, and as it turned to face Kinzaemon, he could see it bore a wicked visage, with glowing yellow eyes, and a gaping maw that opened into a void.

In the creature’s left hand, it held Kiyo by the throat—whether she was alive or not, Kinzaemon could not tell—and the creature’s hand seemed to melt into a shapeless form that wrapped around her neck, and burrowed into her eyes and mouth, as if plumbing the depths of a well for water.

Kinzaemon roared. Tears welled in his eyes, and he rushed at the beast. He sunk the dagger into its chest—it felt like stabbing wet sand—and stared, awestruck, mouth agape, when he realized that the creature could not even feel the pain. The beast didn’t even seem to notice it had been stabbed. Its body slowly absorbed the tanto like the sea reclaimed a mound of sand on the beach.

The merchant did not keep his bravery for much longer. It had abandoned him.

He screamed, turned heel, and ran out of his room, across the hall, and out through the front door into his garden. He didn’t know where he would run to exactly, but as far away as he could was a start.

As he burst through the thick wooden front doors, Kinzaemon was shocked for the third time that evening.

He saw, all around him, the bodies of his guardsmen, of maidservants, and of other household staff, littered across the modest gardens like children’s dolls. From the look of a nearby guardsman, Kinzaemon could see that the man—a young boy, in his nineteenth year—looked as dry and wrinkled like a dried rice husk, or the body of a monk who had undergone sokunshinbutsu.

It was then that the smell came to him. It smelled of fire, and smoke, and burning wood.  Turning to his mansion, he could see those parts of it, especially the western pavilion, were up in flames.

Then the sounds came to him, and he could hear screams from the other side of his estate walls. People were screaming in their homes, in the streets. He could hear people crying out for help, begging for mercy, attempting to run away, only to be destroyed in similarly horrific manners as his wife and daughter.

The whole town was under attack…but by who—or what?

Kinzaemon stood and turned. The wicked beast that had killed his wife had finished with her and had followed the sole survivor of the household out into the courtyard.

The beast gave a rattling growl as it approached him. It did not run, but simply sauntered over to Kinzaemon slowly. It was if the creature knew that the merchant had given up, and abandoned hope for helplessness. It could smell the fear in him, and could taste his despair, and for this, the beast seemed…pleased? Satisfied?

Kinzaemon looked around. He sought out, if he could be so lucky, a way to escape his fate. But he saw nothing; nothing escape for a faint glimpse of a gaunt, almost skeletal man, with sunken eyes, and a sword steeped in shadow.

The man, if he was even real, watched the scene unfold from afar, in dark corner of Kinzaemon’s garden. Just the glimpse of this man made the merchant shudder. It only gave him more questions; questions Kinzaemon would never have answered.

The beast now had Kinzaemon by the throat. Its sticky black tendrils wrapped around his face, reached into his eyes, nose, and mouth. They grasped their way down into his throat, his stomach, his heart, his soul, and sucked the very life out of him from within.

The merchant did not struggle. He did not resist. He did not scream. There was nothing he could do. There was no point. He could only give in. He could only despair. He could only die. And so, he did, with one quick, final snap of his neck.

The world faded away, like the moon before the dawn.

---

[1] Between 12am and 2am.