Then he shrieked, interrupting his own incantation.
Inochinomi was certain that she had died, that she was in the worst of the Five Hundred Hells. Through the blurred veil of the abbot’s spell, a demonic juggernaut roared. Sprouting out of a mass of elephantine legs, writhing tentacles, and remora mouths was a torso topped with an oversized human head.
The hell-thing snarled in pain. Slime-covered tentacles caught the abbot. He struggled to continue his chant. The demon-beast slowly turned. A moment before the foul creature battered the statue of Amida with her uncle’s body, Inochinomi caught a brief glimpse of its hideous face. She saw what must have so terrified her uncle.
That monstrous face had Uesugi features. Her uncle’s high forehead and thin lips. Her mother’s light brown, almost amber eyes. Features Inochinomi shared. She collapsed to her knees, the revelation like a physical blow. The creature faded from visibility, but continued to stomp through the courtyard, slapping the ground with her uncle’s corpse. Her chest grew tight, and no breath seemed to bring enough air.
Reflexively, she began to chant. Namu. Her uncle’s head cracking on the statue. Amida. The creature’s familiar face.
She stopped chanting.
She breathed, deliberately. She felt for the hidden latches in the rear wall. Crawled through the small gates. Pulled her weapons through. She was outside the monastery.
“Inochinomi?” Mizuko’s quiet voice penetrated the haze of night and shock. Inochinomi felt a small, rough hand grasp for hers.
Even without her sight, Mizuko was an expert guide. She led them through the starlight, along crisscrossing animal paths. When Inochinomi asked where they were bound, Mizuko simply said, “home.” Inochinomi wanted to run. Far, far away. But they would find her. She knew this. Maybe even seppuku was no escape. Perhaps they could follow her into death. Find her hiding in hell.
The gray of dawn diffused slowly into the forest. The world seemed ethereal. Balanced halfway between dark and light. They descended a narrow, steep path into a glen. A tall, thin waterfall fed a clear, rock-lined pool. The mist penetrated Inochinomi’s nose and mouth, clearing the lingering stench and smoke. At the water’s edge, Mizuko put down her staff. Undressed.
“What are you doing?” Inochinomi whispered. “There’s no time.”
“This is my haven,” the wild medium said. “We’re safe here. For the moment.” Her feet slid into the pool. “I wash and meditate here every morning, summer or winter. You should join me.”
Mizuko walked under the waterfall, fingers entwined in a mudra of power. The gray light and white water washed over the young woman. Her pale skin shone. In this sanctuary, she seemed not of this world; no mere peasant mystic.
Inochinomi stripped her stinking, travel-stained clothes. Stepped into the water. Gasped as if struck. Hesitated, then moved forward. When she reached Mizuko, the shaman smiled, then stepped to one side. Inochinomi stepped into the flow. The cold water both pricked and numbed her flesh. Her breathing quickened, like a small, frightened animal’s. She tried to copy the medium’s gesture, but Mizuko felt for Inochinomi’s hands. Gently stacked one on top of the other. Palms faced up, collecting the purifying water.
When she emerged, Inochinomi could not stop her arms and knees from shaking. “I’m so cold,” she said, teeth chattering.
Ordered chaos reigned in Mizuko’s hut. Claw and shell rosaries hanging from the low ceiling. Drying mandrake and ginseng root. Talismans of crow feathers and fox paws. Columns of smooth river stones before a tiny statue of Jizo. Clay pots of herbs and incense in a corner.
Mizuko rolled out rice straw bedding on the dirt floor. Sat the shivering Inochinomi down. Wrapped her in blankets. Mizuko added wood to the central pit. Stoked buried coals into a warming fire. The medium spooned Inochinomi a hot porridge of millet and mountain vegetables. They shared a cup of weak tea.
Mizuko removed her robes. Joined Inochinomi under the covers. Pressed her warmth against Inochinomi’s icy skin. Rubbed heat back into her flesh. Back into her heart.
Mizuko gently pushed Inochinomi onto her back. Straddled her. Touched her with lips and fingertips. Hair and scalp. Forehead and eyelids. Cheeks and lips. Making slow progress down her body.
Inochinomi forced herself into this moment. She cut off her past as if with her naginata. Sliced away memories. Home. Father. Mother. Cousins. Brothers. Gone.
She struck at her hopeless future. So many fears. Death. Dread. Demons. The unknown.
She cut them down. Stepped over them.
Eyes closed, she took in the world. The rising crescendo of their breathing. Mizuko’s fingers moving within her. The hint of saltiness on Mizuko’s lips. The sight of this spectral, holy mountain woman above her, hair wild, skin pale. The umami aroma of the earth and damp forest. Sweet herbal smells within the hut. The musk of Mizuko’s skin and her own sex. She arched into Mizuko’s rough hands. Then, in one motion, Inochinomi flipped her lover over and made violent love to her.
Inochinomi awoke alone. Steam rose from a black iron kettle. The sun was high above the smoke hole.
She found inexplicable things in the hut. A badger’s head. Well-worn figurines of fish and squid with the features of men. Foreign scripts carved into wooden blocks.
Someone approached. She put these down. Picked up her tanto.
Mizuko followed her staff into the hut.
“You slept well,” Mizuko said. She smiled. Nervous. “I spoke with a woodcutter. Your enemies are still in the monastery. They’re not looking for you.”
“Not yet,” Inochinomi said. Did Mizuko seem frightened? “I should leave. Soon. I’m a danger to you, your village.”
Mizuko said nothing. She selected a bowl. She counted her pots and baskets. Pulled herbs from this one, a powder from that, rubbing and sniffing each. She mixed these with hot water. Knelt before Inochinomi, holding it out to her, an offering.
Inochinomi took the warm bowl. She was leery but dismissed it. Mizuko had saved her, cleansed her, healed her. Made love to her. She sipped carefully, then drank deep. Bitter, but immediately soothing.
Mizuko turned her head. Listened carefully.
Inochinomi wanted to slip back into the bedding. Her body felt heavy. Sleep. Rest.
She made to spring out of bed. Stumbled instead. Fell to her knees, then struggled to the door.
“Why?” she slurred.
“I have to protect my village, samurai.” Mizuko’s voice was deep with sadness. “I’m sorry.”
Inochinomi stopped at the doorway. Through blurring vision, she saw two strong peasants step cautiously out of the surrounding forest. She slumped to the ground.
Inochinomi woke, gagging. The stench was familiar, stronger. The charnel smell of putrefying corpses. Vomit.
She lay on her side, on worn wood. Rough rope bound her wrists.
A demonic choir rumbled chants. The higher pitch of a woman’s voice wound around their syllables, bound them. Set Inochinomi’s teeth on edge.
With effort, she opened her eyes. She faced the monastery courtyard. She was on the raised veranda of the worship hall, one high step above the ground. A dozen of the half-demons worshipped, kneeling on blood patches in the gravel. They rocked their bodies in rhythm to the deep bass of the chant. Their waist tentacles protruded, swaying like catfish feelers.