Fiction
Fantasy
Thunder shook the earth. Lightning split the sky. The heavens opened up to drench the world in a deluge of unparalleled ferocity. Big, fat drops of rain pooled together as they fell to strike Musashi in one wave after another. It seemed to him that they hit him all as one, rather than in sheets; a tsunami from the sky. As if the ocean itself were trying to reclaim the isles of Nippon.
Though he stoically tucked his head in against his chest to avoid the worst of it, inwardly he raged at himself. The day had started out fair enough, with the sun high in the sky and a light breeze making the summer heat more tolerable. And so he’d set out from the little village of Nekko that morning, having stopped only to purchase a fresh set of waraji sandals at the market. The simple unadorned woven grass from which the sandals were made was all he could afford. A wooden set of geta would have served me better in the long run, he thought sourly.
Musashi swore to himself at the memory of the stall vendor, who’d offered him a fine price on a grass raincoat and hat as a full set. He’d turned the man down, not seeing why he should have need of such extra weight and expense during the dry season.
As time wore on, the breeze had gained strength and urgency, bringing along with it clouds. Thick, dark, billowing clouds that were heavy with water. Dusk came early as they blotted out the sky from one horizon to the other, rendering the full moon imperceptible behind their menacing black embrace.
In moments Musashi was soaked through to the skin, his light outer jacket and kimono pressing the warm summer rain directly against his skin. The pleated hakama leggings covering the lower extremities of his kimono, which billowed out as they extended down to his ankles, became heavy with water and chafed against the insides of his legs as he walked. The ronin gritted his teeth, knowing his inner thighs would be rubbed raw before he reached Tachibana village.
It was then that the wind conspired against him as well. The silk of his clothes, soaked as they were, would not let air pass through them. They formed sails, catching the raging gale around him and pushing him back, forcing Musashi to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.
He consoled himself with the thought that he’d managed to make good time throughout the afternoon, the arid fields and irrigation ditches lining the road giving way to rocky scrubland as he traveled to the foot of the Ningyo mountain range. Once through Tachibana village, and down the valley wending its way between the mountains, he would be out of Gifu Province altogether. From there Musashi could go anywhere his feet would carry him. His swords would pay the way. They always do.
Even as he thought of the long road ahead, he was greeted by the sight of Shinkyo Bridge, known across Gifu as the site where a traveling Buddhist monk confronted a demon. Through the man’s faith, he was able to seal the ravening monster away from the world, freeing Tachibana village from the demon’s reign of terror.
Strange, thought Musashi. I expected it to be bigger.
The bridge was made entirely of wood, roughly a hundred paces across and ten paces wide. In the spring, the little stream that ran below would be swelled by melt-water from the mountains, becoming a raging river that would drown anyone foolish enough to be caught in its turbulence. As such, Shinkyo Bridge was not long but rose in a steep arch over the deep gully through which the river ran.
Despite the weather, he couldn’t help admiring the structure as he began to cross, taking note of its spotless ornamental stone lanterns set into the railings. The wooden slats making up the walkway were freshly sanded and smooth beneath his sandaled feet. As he walked, the boards thumped solidly in their moorings, the wood bowing slightly like freshly cut timber. The locals must care for it.
Funny, he thought to himself to take his mind off his miserable state. The rain striking the boards sounds like footsteps. He cocked his head to the side, listening intently… Just like footsteps.
It didn’t seem likely to him that ordinary folks would be out in weather like this without good reason. It seemed even less likely that someone sneaking up on a man openly wearing the paired swords of a samurai had good intentions. He decided it would be better to continue on as if he’d heard nothing, rather than turn and challenge whoever was stalking him. They might not be alone.
Musashi kept his pace steady as he neared the middle of Shinkyo Bridge, the steps behind him gradually increasing in tempo. The rain pounded down all the harder as he prepared himself, keeping his right hand near the hilt of his katana.
He almost gasped in surprise as his breath began to fog the air before him, but stopped himself lest he alert his pursuer. A bone-deep chill descended upon the ronin. His clothes, which clung to his goose-pimpled flesh, soon tinkled with newly formed ice crystals, matching those he felt swimming through his gut.
The moment came quickly, the footsteps behind him almost drowned out by the pounding of blood in his ears. When they paused a scant foot behind him, he acted.
Pushing off with his left foot, Musashi pivoted on his right heel. His right hand led the turn, dragging three feet of gleaming steel out of its sheath and launching it in a devastating horizontal sweep. The razor sharp katana split raindrops in mid-flight, but struck nothing else.
There was nobody there.
Musashi wheeled about, his eyes darting to and fro, trying to locate his pursuer. No one was to be seen in the gloom.
The sound of footsteps was gone, taking the unnatural cold with it.
Musashi released a loud breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and slowly sheathed his katana as his racing heart began to slow back to normal. He chuckled to himself; a nervous by-product of the receding tide of adrenaline singing through his veins. The storm must be playing with my imagination, he thought, trying to rationalize what he’d just experienced.
Musashi hurriedly made his way off the bridge. He lengthened his stride, heedless of how much his wet clothes chafed or how hard the wind blew in his sudden urgent need to get indoors.
Lightning jagged across the sky like white fire. The door to the inn was yanked open, making the innkeeper and his wife jump in fright as they beheld the seemingly monstrous figure lit in silhouette framing the threshold. The middle-aged couple sighed in relief. The figure resolved itself as it stepped inside, sliding the door shut behind him, abruptly cutting off the storm’s fury.
He was a tall man, young, with a square jaw and high, pockmarked cheeks. His wide-shouldered martial bearing, paired swords, and topknot marked him out as a samurai. He stood, dripping wet, in the landing, surveying the empty common room with guarded curiosity.
“Innkeeper,” he said in a clear, deep voice. “Are you open for business?”
The short, heavyset older man ceased his close scrutiny of the samurai, giving a quick bow as he hurried forward to address his customer. “Of course, samurai-sama. Please sit and dry yourself while I get you some tea.” He gestured toward the empty tables surrounding a fire pit set into the center of the common room, bustling off behind a paper screen into the kitchen.
“Bring some food as well,” the samurai called after him. He unlaced his waraji sandals and tried to massage some life into his road-weary soles. Barefoot, he sat himself at one of the empty tables, sighing in pleasure as the heat from the fire hit his chilled skin.
The innkeeper returned in a moment, setting a steaming mug of tea before the sitting man, who took it gratefully in his pinched, blue hands. “Your food will be ready soon, samurai-sama,” he said with the automatic smile learned through years of plying his trade. “If you’ll be renting a room for the night I shall need to know your name for our registry.”
“I am Miyamoto Musashi,” the seated man said, not meeting the innkeeper’s gaze as he looked around the empty room. “I would’ve expected more people in here on such a foul night as this.”
The innkeeper straightened, looking at Musashi queerly. “Tachibana receives many visitors and has many inns,” he said by way of explanation. “This is the last inn along the road. You must’ve passed all the others when you arrived. Not many are willing to stay out in weather like this long enough to reach my inn.”
Musashi furrowed his brow in confusion. He brightened a moment later. “If I had come from the mountains, then you would be right,” he said, raising a finger as he made his point. “But I came from the west.”
A loud crash of breaking crockery erupted from the kitchen, causing Musashi to start in alarm. The innkeeper continued to stare, appearing not to have heard. His wife rushed out to his side, throwing her arms around him tightly.
“Y–you mean,” the innkeeper stammered, his eyes wide, “y–you crossed Shinkyo Bridge?”
“Hai.” Musashi nodded his assent.
“Impossible,” the innkeeper whispered to himself as he held his wife. Tears formed in his eyes, but he clenched his jaw and fought them. His wife buried her head in his chest, sobs wracking her body.
“What is the matter?” Musashi asked in bewilderment.
“Shinkyo Bridge is home to a demon,” the innkeeper said, his voice quavering with the effort of holding back the sorrow that plagued him. “It kills anyone who attempts to cross on dark nights such as this.”
The woman turned her head away from her husband long enough to meet Musashi’s gaze, her tear-stained face stricken with grief. “The demon took our son,” she sniffled, “years ago.”
“If the demon is bound to the bridge, then why not destroy it?” Musashi asked.
“We can’t,” the innkeeper said. “The demon sustains it. It won’t burn, nor can it be cut down. It doesn’t even age with time and use.”
“I see,” said Musashi, not believing a word of it. They’re mad, he thought. Their son probably drowned when the spring melt caused the river to swell. Now they think the bridge is haunted.
He fished around in his sleeve for a moment. “Thank you for the tea,” he continued, putting a few coins on the table. “Now that I’ve warmed up, I’ll be on my way.”
Musashi turned to go.
A high-pitched wail filled the common room. The samurai spun around, his sword half drawn as he scanned the room for an enemy. Instead he saw the innkeeper’s wife, shrieking in stark-eyed terror. Beside her, her husband’s face was white and bloodless.
“Samurai-sama,” the innkeeper gasped, pointing with a shaking hand, “your back.”
What Musashi’s questing fingers found made him pull up short, his mouth suddenly dry. Four long gashes, as though cut by razor sharp claws, raked down the length of his jacket clean through to the kimono beneath.
“Well,” he said, swallowing hard. “It seems I’ll be staying until I can get this mended.”
The door to Musashi’s room slid open, squealing as the wood frame skidded within its tracks. The innkeeper tripped over his own feet as he stumbled in, falling to his knees before the recumbent form still abed since the previous night. The pudgy man dripped sweat and panted from his unaccustomed flight up the stairs.
He heard a click and a metallic rasp an instant before the chill of cold steel prickled at his throat. The labored breath caught in his chest as he froze. Just as suddenly as it appeared, the blade was gone.
The innkeeper turned to see Musashi sitting cross-legged against the wall behind him. The samurai yawned and sheathed the shorter of his two swords, his wakazashi. He sat in his loincloth, apparently unheeding of the lingering draft from the past night’s rain-cooled air.
The innkeeper was taken aback at the sight of Musashi’s bare chest and arms. They were covered with deeply puckered scars, each the keepsake of an arrow that found its mark. No sword cuts, though, the innkeeper noted.
“You shouldn’t wake people so suddenly,” Musashi said, his voice still heavy with sleep, “it’s bad luck.” He closed his eyes and let his head sink back down to rest against his chest. His sheathed katana stood propped up against his left shoulder, where he could reach it quickly.
“Samurai-sama,” the innkeeper said, mentally shaking off his near-accident, “please come quickly.”
“Have my clothes been repaired?” the samurai asked, not looking up.
“My wife will have them ready for you by tonight,” the innkeeper said, trying to keep his impatience in check, “but there is something you must see at the bridge.”
Musashi’s head snapped up like a wolf that’d scented prey, instantly alert. He unfolded in a single, smooth movement and headed for the door. As he made to step out into the hallway, the innkeeper stopped him, stepping in his path before he could walk out half-naked.
He left and quickly returned with a silk bundle, handing it to Musashi and leaving the room to give him some privacy. In a moment, Musashi emerged, fully clothed in a borrowed kimono. He shook out his sleeves, testing the fit before slipping his swords into the cloth belt at his waist.
“This isn’t one of yours, is it?” Musashi asked the much-shorter man as they made their way up the hall and down the stairs.
“No,” the innkeeper said. “It was my son’s.”
Musashi halted halfway across the empty downstairs common room and looked at the innkeeper, seeing the sorrow in the older man’s eyes. The innkeeper forced a smile, hearing Musashi’s unspoken protests.
“Please,” he said. “My son was a practical boy. He would’ve wanted his things to be of use to someone rather than collecting dust.”
“Besides,” he continued, letting out an empty laugh to cover his emotion, “I wouldn’t stay in business long if all my customers walked out without so much as the clothing on their backs.”
Musashi nodded, aware of the kindness being done to him. “What was his name?” he asked, strapping on his waraji sandals at the door.
The innkeeper bowed his head. “Kenta, samurai-sama.”
“Please,” Musashi said as they walked out the door, “honorifics are not necessary at this point.”
The innkeeper hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Hai... Musashi. Call me Gen.”
They walked, side by side, down the road. The rain stopped during the night, but the sheer volume of water had nowhere to go. The dry earth of Tachibana village’s road became a muddy bog, over which the pair carefully trod lest they slip and fall into the slurry. Despite this, there were many people taking the risk that morning. Townspeople, travelers, farmers, day laborers, and children were all out in abundance, all heading in the same direction as Musashi and Gen—toward Shinkyo Bridge.
“Musashi?” Gen asked.
Musashi gave a distracted grunt as he avoided a particularly deep puddle.
“Why weren’t you sleeping in your bedding? It’s perfectly clean.”
Musashi chuckled at the misplaced anxiety he heard in the innkeeper’s voice. “It’s nothing to do with that. I’ve spent so much time sleeping outdoors that bedding is too soft; I can’t fall asleep in it. Besides, it serves as a useful decoy, as you found out.”
The innkeeper tried to imagine sleeping outside on the hard ground, always on guard should someone wish him harm. It made for a bleak outlook; not being able to trust anyone, not being able to truly rest or relax for even a single moment. His burgeoning respect for the samurai grew even greater.
As they approached the bridge, the pair spotted a crowd of onlookers milling about. Musashi shoved his way through, the sight of the swords at his hip silencing any protests of indignation before they could be voiced.
At the center of the bridge, surrounded by fearful people come to gawk, lay a hideous hand. Severed at the wrist, the hand was the dark green of a festering wound. Its fingers were bony and impossibly long, tipped with wickedly sharp claws that had more in common with those of a beast than the fingernails of a man.
Gen’s wife stood closest, alongside two men bearing the coarsely spun garb and sharp axes of woodcutters. Together they held the fascinated crowd back from the macabre hand. When Musashi crouched over the thing to examine it, the onlookers edged back, as wary of what the hand might do as what the samurai was capable of.
“These two men found it as they crossed earlier this morning,” Gen said from beside him, indicating the two woodcutters, who bobbed their heads in acknowledgment. Gen reached forward to prod it.
Musashi caught his wrist in an iron grip. “Don’t touch it,” the samurai hissed, releasing him.
“What should we do?” the innkeeper asked.
“Fetch me a large cloth and summon a priest,” Musashi ordered. “It must be consecrated before we can be sure it’s safe.”
Gen’s wife went running off, darting through the crowd, back to the inn.
“The nearest temple is a full day’s walk, one way,” one of the woodcutters said, pointing east. “We’ll go.”
“We were headed back that direction already,” the other piped up, looking enough like his partner for them to be brothers.
They started off immediately. Gen’s wife returned with a bed sheet thrown over her shoulder. Musashi took it and rolled the hand up into it, being careful not to touch the clawed monstrosity directly.
“We’ll keep it safe until the priest arrives,” Musashi said as he walked back to the inn.
Gen dithered and wrung his hands, his nerves wound tight as a bowstring. “Is there anything we can do until then?” he asked.
“Your wife will get on with mending my clothes,” Musashi said firmly as the crowd made way before him and his strange bundle. “You will make breakfast. I won’t be able to leave until she’s finished anyway.”
“Please don’t kill me!” the man begged. He was down on his knees, kowtowing, his forehead pressed against the smooth-grained wooden boards below him. The fresh wood was awash in his sticky sweat. Despite the balmy evening air, he shook and trembled like a leaf.
A skeletal hand grabbed the back of the man’s neck, hauling him clean off the ground. His face blanched and he lost control of his bodily functions at the sight of what held him in the air as easily as a mother cat might carry a kitten. The figure looming over him grinned cruelly, pulling necrotic lips back to reveal the fangs of a tiger. Eyes staring from the depths of an inhuman skull, a death’s head raised from the boiling hells of Jigoku, glowed with an infernal light. It savored the terror radiating from the helpless man.
“You must pay my toll,” the demon said, its moist, pestilent voice bubbling up as if from the torn throat of a week-old corpse. “If not your life, then what else can you offer?”
The man didn’t respond. He could only hang there as wet warmth seeped down his legs. A syrupy, chittering, amorphous sludge flowed outward from the pit of his gut to coat him and swallow him whole, paralyzing his body and consuming his thoughts. Voices of random chaos giggled and whispered, telling him to give in to the soothing balm of madness and be free of the terror that crushed and compressed him as if he were buried beneath the combined weight of land and sea.
“What else?” the demon demanded, shaking him like a rag doll. Its gaping jaws carried the carrion odor of death and ripe rot, making the man gag and labor for breath, hyperventilating in a matter of moments.
“Take anything,” the man said, his sense of self-preservation forcing him to respond. “Anything you want. Just please let me live.”
“It happens that I have need of a body such as yours,” the demon said, its hellish eyes growing brighter by the second. “From this moment, I claim everything that is yours, but your life.”
The man tried to look away from the blinding light of the creature’s eyes, but found he could not move. His gaze was locked on those swirling eyes, like portals into another world; windows into the soul. The soul he saw looking back at him was a black, twisted thing; a horrific amalgam of unspeakable deeds compounded over an existence that was far too long to be measured in years.
His mind cried out in protest, his jaw and throat not even able to give voice to the scream welling up deep inside of him, so held within the creature’s sway was he. His consciousness began to fade as his thoughts, his being, his very soul were thrust aside by some part of that ancient evil taking up residence in him, violating all that he was by the merest inkling of its presence. In his last moments before the darkest engulfed him, throwing him into an endless sea of terrible memories belonging to a being older than time itself, the man realized that there were far worse things than death.
The demon set the man’s shell down. It no longer trembled or cringed in fear, its docile expression staring off blankly into the distance.
“Can you hear me?” the ancient creature asked.
“Yes,” the man replied, his voice hollow and without inflection.
The demon reached out with one impossibly long arm to the bridge railing beside it. It dug serrated talons into the wood, gouging out a chip roughly the size of a man’s finger.
“You know where the samurai who arrived in Tachibana village dwells?” it asked.
The man nodded slowly, his head lolling over his shoulders as if his neck was broken.
“Hide this within the samurai’s house,” the demon ordered, passing him the wooden chip. “Give him no cause for suspicion.”
The man nodded again, standing in the middle of the bridge.
“Well?” the demon snapped. “Go now!”
The man-shell turned about and tottered off toward Tachibana village, his steps becoming more sure and natural the farther he got from Shinkyo Bridge. A moment later, the vacant look on his face was gone, replaced by an alert, normal expression. As he rounded the corner into the village outskirts, he became just another part of the bustling crowd of men and women returning home from the day’s toil.
“Will you stay and have some tea?”
“No. I must be going,” the man said, already turning to leave. “Perhaps some other time.”
Gen sagged as the villager left. He looked around the empty common room and sighed. The day had come and gone with no customers. Word of the demon hand’s discovery had spread like wildfire throughout Tachibana and its neighboring villages. Dozens of people arrived at the inn, alone or in small groups, hoping for the chance to see the otherworldly claw for themselves.
They all left in disappointment. Musashi refused to let anyone touch or open the seemingly innocent cloth bundle set on the table before him.
“Why won’t you let anyone see it?” Gen asked, frustrated at the loss of another customer. “It would be good for business.”
“I can’t,” Musashi said, not taking his eyes off the motionless bundle for a moment. “It’s still dangerous.”
He started as a man appeared in the doorway across from where he sat. He was tall, his thin frame hardened with lean muscle. The man was unshaven, several weeks of unkempt beard covering his jaw and neck. His dark eyes were surrounded by crow’s feet and prematurely wrinkled skin, the result of a life spent under the sun. Homespun leggings and a loosely woven vest over his bare chest were all he needed in the balmy summer dusk. A small bow and quiver were strapped across his back, while a bulging cloth bag hung opposite a gutting knife at his belt.
Musashi was halfway to his feet when Gen hurried forward.
“Tokoemon,” Gen said, opening his arms and beckoning the man forward in welcome. “Please come in and sit. I’ll have food and drink brought right away.”
Tokoemon raised a hand to stop the innkeeper mid-flow. “I’ve just stopped by to sell my catch.” He pulled a pair of wild rabbits from his bag, displaying them for Gen to see.
“Oh,” Gen said, visibly deflating. “Normally I would, but business has been slow lately. I’m afraid I can’t afford to buy anything right now.” He looked around the empty room to emphasize his point.
Musashi stood up and looked the carcasses over. “These would be perfect for stew,” he said. “How much?”
“100 mon each,” Tokoemon said, “but for you, 150 for the pair.”
Musashi nodded his approval of the offer. “Yosh.” He handed over the small coins to the hunter, who turned over his catch.
Tokoemon nodded his thanks, pocketed the coins, and departed without another word.
Musashi turned and offered the rabbits to Gen. He demurred.
“That’s much too generous, Musashi-san,” the innkeeper said. He wrung his hands fretfully as he looked at enough meat to feed him and his wife for a week.
Musashi smiled reassuringly. “I’m afraid I can’t make up for all the business you’ve lost, but I can at least make sure you won’t go hungry,” he said. “Think of it as an apology for the disturbance I’ve caused.”
“Apology accepted,” Gen said, giving a short bow out of respect. He took the rabbits and headed off into the kitchen, his mood lightened at the prospect of a hearty meal. He passed his wife, who looked up from her needlework at the side table where the crockery was kept. She grinned at the sight of the rabbits, getting up to help with their preparation.
She built up the fire in the clay oven set against the back wall, throwing in kindling from the woodpile next to it. She took their largest pot out the back entrance to draw water from the well and wash it thoroughly, while her husband got on with butchering the meat.
He used a sharp knife and cutting board set next to the stove to skin the animals. As he turned to throw inedible scraps into the slops bucket on the floor, a piece of wood fell to the ground with a clatter.
Gen picked it up and looked it over. “Odd thing for a rabbit to have eaten,” he said to himself.
He casually threw the hunk of wood into the oven and got on with cooking, forgetting all about it. The simple chip of wood sat within the glowing confines of the oven. Amidst the scorching heat, it stubbornly refused to catch light, not even charring.
A familiar voice came from the other side of the paper screen. “Gen,” Musashi called, “you’ve a customer.”
Gen emerged from the kitchen to see a stoop-shouldered old woman standing in the doorway. Her silver-grey hair was pulled up tightly in a bun. She was clad in a worn but clean grey yukata, her hands tucked within the robe’s voluminous sleeves. She smiled, revealing an empty, pink-gummed mouth.
“I’ve come to see the samurai who took the hand of the demon of Shinkyo Bridge,” she said, explaining her presence.
Gen’s practiced innkeeper’s smile froze on his face, his rising spirits dashed once again. He indicated Musashi, unable to speak for a moment as he fought for composure.
Musashi nodded respectfully to the old woman, his expression severe but non-threatening.
“Samurai-sama,” she said. “I would be forever grateful if you would allow me to see the hand.”
Musashi shook his head. “I’m sorry, grandmother, but I cannot. The hand is still dangerous until a priest can seal away the evil that dwells within it.”
The old woman lowered her head and began to cry, covering her face with the sleeves of her yukata so her tears wouldn’t shame her. “Please, samurai-sama,” she said between sobs. “The demon killed my husband many years ago. It will not be long before I am called to his side, but until then, seeing the hand that took his life laid low would grant me some measure of peace.”
Hearing her story, so similar to his, Gen sniffed to hold back tears of his own. The only one who betrayed no emotion was Musashi. His eyes were dry and unclouded; his stern visage might’ve been carved of marble for the lack of passion it showed.
Finally, he came to a decision. “Very well,” he said. “You may see the claw, but what ill befalls you for it will be entirely your own fault.”
His warning given, he passed the bundle across the table to the old woman. She snatched it up in triumph, and in that moment she changed.
Her hair grew out, a wild and untamed mane of stark white. Her yukata bleached itself to match, taking on the ritual color of death and mourning. Its fabric creaked as the body within it grew, her limbs stretching and elongating until she towered head and shoulders above the two men. Sharp teeth, yellow and jagged, sprung from her gums as her eyes took on an eerie glow.
Gen stood stock still, unable to do anything save behold the terrible majesty of the thing that stood before him. “Demon,” he whispered to himself in horror.
“Demon woman!” Musashi shouted, on his feet, his katana drawn in an instant. “Hannya, how are you able to leave the bridge?”
The demon that took the guise of a woman, a fabled hannya, let out a cackle like gravel crunching underfoot. “I am bound to Shinkyo Bridge,” it said. “This is true. But I can go wherever the bridge goes as well.”
“Stop talking nonsense,” Musashi demanded, uncowed by the demon’s presence.
“I’ve come to claim my hand,” the demon said, a feral grin splitting its face from ear to ear, “and to killed the one responsible for stealing it.”
The hannya unwrapped the bundle, burning need in its eyes. It let loose an ear-piercing shriek of demonic fury, flinging the piece of firewood it found within across the room.
In the moment that the demon’s attention shifted, Musashi acted. He charged. Running up onto a bench and then onto a table to hurl himself straight at it, he let loose a full-throated war cry that shook the rafters.
Though weakened by the absence of its hand, the hannya was still powerful. It swung its one remaining claw, swatting Musashi like a mosquito. He went flying through the air to crash through the paper screen into the kitchen, tumbling to a halt against the log pile beside the oven.
The demon barged through the common room after the samurai, paying no heed to the terrified innkeeper. In his fear and desperation, Gen lashed out with his kitchen knife as the demon passed. The sharp steel blade twisted upon impact with the demon’s side, as if he’d struck solid stone. Such was the hannya’s single-minded fury that it failed to notice the attack, cramming itself into the low-ceilinged kitchen to face the prone samurai.
“Where is it?” the demon shrieked, spittle flying from its gnashing teeth.
Musashi hauled himself to a sitting position beside the oven. He reached back behind the pile of kindling, drawing forth another bundle identical to the first.
“Another trick,” the demon said, spitting in disgust as it advanced on Musashi.
“Think so?” the samurai said, a knowing smile on his lips. “Let’s find out.” With that he plunged the bundle into the flames of the open oven.
Holding the stump of one wrist, the demon threw back its head and howled in indescribable agony.
Musashi snarled, his lips pulled back to reveal his teeth in a savage grin. “Leave now,” he shouted, “or your hand will be lost to you for all time!”
The demon looked down at Musashi, its eyes blazing in equal parts pain and rage. “This isn’t over, samurai,” it promised.
The hannya departed, its form unfocusing into a billowing mist that dissipated as if it had never been.
“You’re damn right, it isn’t,” Musashi said to the empty air as he doggedly got to his feet. He retrieved the charred bundle containing the demon’s hand from the mouth of the oven and limped out of the kitchen past the stricken Gen.
The road outside the inn was crowded with people drawn by the sounds of the fight. They scattered when they saw Musashi’s bruised face, his mouth compressed into a straight line, his eyes flashing with smoldering rage.
He’d twisted his ankle in the fall, slowing his determined march toward the bridge. Gen quickly caught up, carrying a paper lantern to light their way, a kitchen knife stuck through his belt. Judging by the noise of all the footsteps behind them, Musashi guessed the entire village followed in their wake.
“What are you doing?” Gen asked, his face still white from the encounter at the inn.
“I’m finishing this,” Musashi said through clenched teeth, not taking his eyes off the bridge in the distance.
When they got to the bridge Musashi turned to address the crowd that followed. “The demon is bound to the bridge,” he said in clear, measured tones. “Stay well clear of it and you should be safe.”
He paced forward, stopping just short of the first of the wooden planks set into the side of the riverbank. He took the lantern from Gen and held it near the cloth bundle he carried.
“Hannya! Show yourself or I will destroy your hand.”
The night sky was clear, a waxing moon brightly lighting the landscape. The breeze helped to dissipate the heat that rose from the earth, infused there by the day’s baking sun. It was quiet. No insects chirped. No birds sang. All that could be heard was the gurgle of the river and hushed whispers from the crowd behind him.
Musashi saw that there was something wrong with it all. A shadow played across the boards of the walkway though there was nothing there to cast it. As he watched, the shadow coalesced. Darkness and gloom gathered together until the demon took shape, standing brazenly at the top of the arched structure.
“What do you want?” the demon demanded.
“A trade,” Musashi said. “I will give you your hand. In return you shall go back to the burning planes of Jigoku, never to bother the realm of the living again.”
The demon smirked at him, its eyes growing as bright as the sun. Musashi tensed, wondering what trick the infernal creature had in mind.
A shout of warning came from behind. Musashi tried to turn, but a twinge from his ankle slowed him. The full weight of a body crashed into his back, driving him face-first onto the planks of the bridge as his attacker fell atop him. Strong hands wrapped around his throat and began to squeeze.
His vision dimming rapidly, Musashi managed to wriggle his arms out from underneath his body. He grabbed the little finger on one of the hands throttling him and savagely yanked it backward. The crack of bone was audible over the blood rushing in his head.
His attacker’s grip loosened enough for Musashi to turn over. He was greeted with the sight of the hunter, Tokoemon, drawing his gutting knife. Gen hung onto the back of Tokoemon’s vest doggedly, shouting in his ear to stop. But the hunter’s face was blank, his eyes unseeing as he prepared to plunge the blade into Musashi’s chest.
His swords were still pinned beneath the man’s body. Musashi had no choice but to drive a hard-knuckled fist into the base of his throat. He grabbed his attacker by the side of the neck and pulled him sideways as the man crumpled to lay beside Musashi, gasping for air.
Gen helped Musashi to his feet. He gave a frightened yelp as he looked over the samurai’s shoulder. The demon charged toward the pair with astonishing speed and implacable momentum. Its hair flew behind it like a cloak as white as pure snow, its fanged maw opened wide in a silent howl.
Gen looked down, sickening realization turning his stomach. Beneath their feet were the smooth boards of Shinkyo Bridge shining in the moonlight.
Musashi shoved Gen hard, pitching him back onto his rump. With the innkeeper no longer crowding him, the samurai turned, drawing his katana.
He swung his blade backhanded, a downward diagonal stroke timed to rip open the demon’s torso as it came into range. Just as before, his sword struck nothing but air, the demon gone an instant before his blade bit into its flesh. Musashi looked around; staying on guard, but the hannya was nowhere to be seen.
A loud cry from Gen drew his attention. He was pointing at something. Musashi followed the line of his finger…straight up. The demon hung in the air, its blindingly fast jump carrying it well over the samurai’s head.
Musashi leapt backward as the demon landed where he’d been standing with an almighty thump. It grinned at him in triumph. Musashi realized belatedly that the demon now stood between him and the nearest way off the bridge, cutting off any hope of escape. With his ankle twisted there was no chance he could outrun the hannya to the other end of the bridge. The gully running below them was so far down that he’d break his neck if he tried jumping over the side railing. Seeing no other option, Musashi readied himself for death.
He charged.
The tip of his outthrust blade slid between the rock-hard talons of the demon’s remaining hand. With a twist of its wrist, Musashi’s sword was plucked from his grasp. It clattered to the ground off to his right, but the demon was on him before he had a chance to recover it.
It bore him to the wood planks beneath, grabbing his wrists and pinning them up above his head. The hannya’s face was just a few inches away from Musashi’s, its rancid breath making his stomach churn. Try as he might, he could not break the demon’s crushing grip.
“You broke my toy,” the demon said in mocking tones, tilting its angular head toward the prone, unmoving form of Tokoemon. “You’ll have to take his place.”
The demon’s eyes blazed a lambent green. Though they were painfully bright, Musashi found he couldn’t look away. He was paralyzed by the hannya’s penetrating stare, his mind fighting against the malign force seeking to make him its puppet.
Gen watched in knock-kneed terror as the invincible hannya played with its newest victim. Musashi was pinned beneath the she-devil’s bulk, its unnatural strength immobilizing his arms. Though bruised and battered, Musashi refused to give up, his teeth gritted in determination.
He started as the bundle Musashi dropped when Tokoemon attacked him began to move. The loathsome demon’s hand wriggled free of its wrappings and began to scuttle toward its owner, its talons clattering on the wooden walkway as it went.
In his borrowed kimono, Gen realized how much the samurai looked like his late son. The same height, the same strong shoulders, the same firm jaw line. Kenta would be about as old as him, he thought to himself.
In that moment, with that thought, his fear was drowned out by a towering rage. Tears filled his eyes, obscuring his vision. He no longer cared what happened to him, only that this man who reminded him so strongly of his son lived.
Gen stepped out onto the bridge, gripping his knife tightly. He caught up to the hand and planted his sandaled foot atop it, grinding its fingers beneath his heel.
“I watched my son die at your hands, demon! I’ll not stand idle and witness it twice!”
He plunged the knife down through the back of the severed hand, the tip of his blade rebounding off the wood beneath.
A loud, keening wail ripped from the demon’s throat, deafening Musashi. Its eyes dimmed for a moment as the pain from its severed hand broke its concentration, its hold over the samurai gone.
“Men are not your toys, monster,” Musashi spat, snapping his head forward. He let out a bark of pain as his forehead connected with the demon’s long, protruding nose, flattening it in a spray of green ichor.
The hannya reared back in surprise and blinding agony, its grip on Musashi’s wrists lost as it reflexively clutched at its bleeding face.
The samurai swept his wakazashi from its scabbard and reversed it into a backhand grip. He planted its chiseled point at the base of the demon’s chin and drove upward with all his might, not stopping until it was buried to the hilt. The hannya didn’t even have time to scream, its last breath coming out in a gasping rattle.
Its skull transfixed, the demon fell aside, its form gradually fading back into the shadows from whence it came.
Woozy from the impact to the head, Musashi felt around his seated form and collected his swords, successfully sheathing them on the third try. A pair of hands caught hold of his arms and helped haul him to his feet. He looked over see Gen’s worried, moon-white face. Gen leant Musashi his shoulder and together the two staggered off the bridge. They were greeted by looks of stunned awe from the villagers waiting for them. The people of Tachibana broke into wild cheers as the hannya’s death finally sunk in.
Gen’s wife pushed through the crowd, her eyes red from unshed tears and worry. She ran to help her husband carry Musashi, taking his other shoulder.
A loud creaking silenced the villager’s jubilant applause. They all looked at the empty bridge, breath held in fear that the demon would return. Instead, they saw the bridge changing before their eyes. Wooden boards turned gray and warped out of true. Ornamental stone lanterns sprouted tufts of lichen and began to crumble. The support beams holding up Shinkyo Bridge became pitted and rotten. With a thundering crash, the entire structure collapsed, throwing a great cloud of wood-dust high into the air.
“What happened?” Musashi asked in a slurred voice, his eyes having trouble focusing.
“The demon sustained Shinkyo Bridge for centuries,” Gen said as they limped toward the inn. “Without the demon, time has return and aged it. How did you know to give it a fake bundle instead of the hand?”
“Didn’t,” Musashi said simply. “Force of habit. Decoys, remember?”
“Gen?”
“Hai?”
“’M hungry.”
Gen smiled at the dazed samurai. “Let’s get you to your room and I’ll cook those rabbits for you.”
They continued onward in silence for a few moments more before Musashi spoke again. “Gen?”
“Hai?”
“Could you cook something else?”
Gen made sure to knock this time before entering Musashi’s room. Ignoring the untouched bedroll, he turned to face the wall, placing the tray he was carrying before the seated samurai.
Still in his borrowed kimono, Musashi sat in the same spot Gen had found him in that morning. So much had happened since then, it seemed to have been years ago. A small, oiled whetstone lay next to him, his drawn wakazashi in hand as he scrutinized the blade. The only indications of his brush with death were the purple bruises on his wrists where the demon pinned him, as well as a growing knot on his forehead.
“The hannya’s skull was harder than I thought,” Musashi said, indicating his short sword. “It nicked my sword.”
“I’ve brought your dinner.”
Musashi looked at the tray. “Not rabbit stew,” he said, relieved. The memory of what happened to Tokoemon was too fresh in his mind for him to have been able to stomach it.
Gen smiled. “That ran out an hour ago,” he said. “We’ve been swamped with customers all night. They’re busy talking about what happened. The story gets better every time it’s told. Soon you’ll have bested an entire army of demons if they keep going on like they are.”
Musashi chuckled.
“They wanted me to fetch you to recount the fight,” Gen continued, “but I told them it was late and waking you would be a bad idea.” He nodded at the unused bedroll for emphasis.
“I thought they would be angry now that the bridge is gone,” Musashi said as he picked up the whetstone and began to work it down the length of the blade. “They’ll have to build another.”
Gen shrugged. “I imagine they will be angry in a day or two,” he said. “For the moment they seem content to celebrate. Most people tend not to think very far ahead.”
“True.”
They sat in companionable silence, the rhythmic swooshing of the whetstone punctuating the quiet murmur of voices coming from downstairs.
“Musashi?” Gen said, feeling a little hesitant to recall the event. “Why did my knife cut into the demon’s hand at the bridge? When I stabbed the demon earlier, the blade simply bounced off.”
Musashi continued to work quietly, holding the blade up to catch the lamplight. “You’ve heard it said that a samurai’s sword is his soul?” he said, examining the edge of his wakazashi.
Gen nodded.
“This isn’t literal, of course. It’s a metaphor for the sword representing all that a samurai is; our function, our duty. We devote our entire lives to warfare. When we’re not at war we train to hone our skills further. Focus. Singularity of purpose. As a result, our spiritual energies combine with our physical energies.”
Gen stared at Musashi in incomprehension. The samurai saw this and tried to explain.
“When I stabbed the demon,” he said, “when I took its hand, I struck it on the spiritual plane as well as the physical. Such beings are as much things of the soul as they are the body.”
Gen nodded, thinking he understood. “When I stabbed its hand,” he said, “my spirit and body were united in the attack.”
“Hai,” Musashi confirmed with a nod. “Such a state is the mark of a warrior.”
Gen smiled. He puffed out his chest, his face beaming at such praise.
Musashi sheathed his sword and pulled the tray closer, pouring himself some sake. “If you’ll pardon me, I think I’ll get some sleep as soon as I’ve finished dinner,” he said. “I’ll be leaving in the morning.”
“No you won’t.”
The samurai tensed, looking over at Gen, wary.
“We’ve been so busy, my wife hasn’t finished mending your clothes,” the innkeeper said by way of explanation.
Musashi shifted uncomfortably, not meeting Gen’s eyes as he confessed, “I don’t have enough money to afford another night’s stay.”
Gen laughed. “After all you’ve done for us, all you’ve risked, you think I would accept payment?” he said, flashing an infectious grin.
Musashi was still for a moment as the prospect of another day’s rest eased its way into his mind. He heaved a theatrical sigh as he sipped at his sake. “Oh well,” he said. “In that case I should think there are worse fates.”
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Copyright 2009, John Albers. All rights reserved. John Albers, 25 years old and born in Olympia, Washington has avidly devoured literature, short stories and especially science fiction/fantasy since he learned to read at age 3. He and his family moved to Okeechobee, Florida at age 2, where he excelled in school and was accepted into the International Baccalaureate program in high school. His love for reading and talent for writing melded into a passion for the creation of stories. John wrote his first, yet unfinished, book at 15 and has since written 5 published works, both scientific and fictional. This is in addition to the 800+ online articles and publications which he’s sold all rights to.
He graduated from the University of Central Florida in 2006 magna cum laude with a bachelor’s in Psychology. His plans to get his PHD in Psychology were sidetracked by personal health problems, though he will get that degree eventually. In the meantime he pursues writing as both a business and a pastime.
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