“Oneechan.” Big sister.
As the eerie green flare sputtered out, the bodies of both demonic rider and steed dissolved into gelatinous masses, sticky with mucus. Inochinomi’s vomit mixed with the foul remains as the rain fought to wash both away.ˇ
The strange girl produced a pitch torch from a waterproof woven basket she wore strapped to her back. It struggled against the rain and dark to cast a feeble flicker.
“The devil that escaped will be back,” Inochinomi said as she gathered her weapons. “With others.”
“I heard the chain,” the girl said. “It wanted you alive.” She sounded intrigued.
Now that Inochinomi had light within reach, she wanted to take it and run. She took a deep breath. “I’m in your debt.”
“Call me Mizuko,” the girl said, lighthearted. Unfazed by the attack. And the stench.
“Mizuko,” said Inochinomi. Water-girl. “Strange name for one carrying so much fire.”
“The people of Dan no Uchi used to produce most of the fireworks in this region,” said Mizuko. “People buy the ones from the capital now, but the villagers keep making them.”
Inochinomi took the offered torch.
Mizuko was a young woman, about Inochinomi’s age. She wore the white tunic and trousers of a yamabushi, a mountain ascetic, as well as the tooth and claw, bone and beak rosary of the itako, a blind medium. Mizuko poked at their attacker’s melting corpse with a thin staff. She squatted. Scooped mucus into a small lacquer box. Wiped her hands in the mud, then stood.
Inochinomi shuddered, but guided the medium’s hand to her shoulder. Mizuko thanked her.
They plodded up the slope toward the ancient monastery of Dan no Uchi, and the village that spilled around it and over the edges of the tableland. Mizuko spoke in whispers. Dan no Uchi, Within the Altar or Platform, got its name from the mountain’s abrupt, wide summit. It was as though some old god had beheaded the mountain, perhaps to create a giant table for feasting. Or an altar for sacrifice.
Inochinomi peered into the darkness for her pursuers. The torchlight transformed the forest, so that they were surrounded by clutching, wavering, limbed shadows. Mizuko looked more ghostly than human. Black hair unbound, wild and free. Pale skin, almost glowing against the night. White robe, plastered against her slim chest. Feet hidden.
The forest appeared to be slowly devouring the village. They first encountered the skeletal remains of huts, then homes consumed from within by weeds and from without by close-growing branches. Vines smothered even a crossroads statue of the Bodhisattva Jizo.
The monastery itself was lit, a fortress against the night.
Mizuko halted her careful shuffle. “I’m not welcome here,” she said.
“I’ll tell him you saved my life,” Inochinomi protested. “How will you get home?”
“Dan no Uchi is my home,” Mizuko said. “I’ll be fine. But you, samurai, you’ll be in danger at the monastery. Please, come with me!”
“I’m sorry,” Inochinomi said. She wanted to follow. She could not. Instead she brought Mizuko’s fingers up to touch her face. They stayed that way for a long moment.
Mizuko slowly brought her hand away. She followed the tip of her staff into the night.
Big monks guarded the high, backlit gate. She noted two archers, arrows nocked. Nerves on edge. The gate opened. She entered the brightly lit courtyard, squinted. Nearly two dozen lanterns burned.
The worship hall stood open. The man-sized statue, washed with gold, shone serenely, brilliantly. For all of Dan no Uchi’s remoteness, this hollow lacquered Buddha was famous. Holy. Namu Amida Butsu. Hope returned. Hell could be stopped here. A middle-aged man stepped into her line of sight.
“Uncle,” she nearly shouted, but checked herself. Then, “Abbot Uesugi.” She bowed low.
“Inochan,” he stepped forward. Navigating around her weapons, he embraced her mud-splattered body. She must reek of travel and fear and battle with the unholy. He looked sad.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Sorry?” How could he know?
“Your father is dead. Why else would you be here, alone?” His shoulders slumped. “And I fear that soon we will all be dead.”
“Uncle, what do you mean? You have the best fighting monks in the domain. And you have him,” she said, motioning toward the central altar. Wind buffeted the twin pillars of incense smoke.
They stood, gazing at the shining Buddha. The old abbot finally spoke.
“Even the Bodhisattvas and ancient kami cannot stand against old gods who were here before them, and who will be here when they have rotted, and the memories of their memories have evaporated.”
She stared at him, felt hope bleed out.
Seeing her expression, he sighed. “But I’m not powerless against such. Old knowledge runs in our family. Your father knew that when he married my sister.”
He refused to elaborate, but called for an initiate to lead her to the guest chamber.
The rain stopped the next day. Inochinomi told her uncle and his assistants what she could of the ambush on her father’s garrison, and her narrow escape. She did not speak of her father’s hara-kiri.
No one exhibited the calm she expected of holy men. Agitated monks hurried around Inochinomi, preparing for attack. She knelt in the great hall before the statue of Amida Buddha. She tried meditating, but her skin prickled. The cold dry air choked, oppressed. Even Amida seemed to peek nervously between his eyelids, the stains in the wood like streaks of sweat and tears.
When night finally came, the courtyard was again bright with lantern light, and the walls and gates had been reinforced. Twenty-seven seasoned sohei, warrior monks, paced about in breast armor, naginata and iron clubs at the ready. Seven more stood on the walls, nervously plucking at their bowstrings. Others knelt in yellow robes, grinding rosaries between their palms, chanting sutras.
She cornered her uncle. “Where would you like me? I’m the equal of any man here.”
He gestured to a far corner of the monastery. “There are two secret exits there,” he said. He cut off her protest with a gesture and continued angrily. “I’m risking the lives of my followers to protect you. You will do as I say.” His face filled with sadness, affection. “My sister’s daughter. Find the itako. I don’t like her, but if we fail, she may be your only hope. I fear weapons won’t stop this foe, Inochan.”
Inochinomi woke to a tremendous crash. From her hiding place near the escape route, she could see that the gate and the surrounding wall had exploded into splinters. Screams and snarls filled her ears. Death marched ahead of a group of masked devils. Lanterns burst before their advance, warrior monks hurled this way and that by some invisible force. Cold fear poured into Inochinomi’s heart.
The courtyard became a scene from a hell scroll. Burning wood. Cooking flesh. That hatefully familiar stench of rotting corpses. The terrified cries of dying men. Desperate shouted orders. Beastly growls and whimpers. Tentacles and ape-like arms grappling with iron staffs. Strangest of all, the path of destruction leading to the main worship hall, as if an elephant from distant India trampled friend and foe alike.
The line of chanting monks fell to that unseen force. Their bodies were thrown or smashed, blood spreading into yellow robes. Her uncle stood alone in front of Amida. He trembled, but recited words of power. Then he pointed and shouted a mystical command. The air shimmered in front of him…