“What Gate?”
“Gate to the Otherworld. That’s where these things — ” Bran reached out the Lance with a weary arm, stabbing a charging monster — “are coming from.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Think, man! Aren’t you people supposed to know these things? An entrance to the spirit world — where is it?”
“I’ve only moved here from Nagoya a month ago!”
Bran frowned. Useless. Lady Kazuko would have guessed at once… And then it struck him. Lady Kazuko!
“The Waters of Scrying!” he shouted. “Please, take me to the cave. I don’t know the way.”
“How do you know about it?” the priest stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Does it matter now?”
“I… don’t know the way,” said the High Priest.
“What?”
“I told you, I’m new… but there may be someone who knows, at the shrine…”
Bran called on Emrys; the dragon slammed down between the priests and the fighting spirits, squashing several Shadows under its belly. The priest grew pale; Bran grabbed him by the collar and pushed onto the dragon’s back.
“Hold on tight,” he ordered.
“To what…?” The priest looked around in confusion.
“To me!”
The girl waited for them in the Suwa Shrine’s courtyard; a lone figure amidst the darkness, wearing a servant’s garbs, a straw hat, and with her face covered in grime, she resembled Satō so much that Bran let out a quiet gasp.
“My sister tol’ me to wait for you,” she said, bowing.
Bran looked around. The courtyard was empty and quiet, eerily so, after the noise and chaos of the battle in the streets below.
“Your sister?”
“Follow me. Down there, across the stream,” said the girl, and darted off into the woods, without looking back.
The waning moon was as bright as it had been the night Bran had followed Nagomi down the trail beyond the bamboo grove, over the small bridge into the deep, gnarled forest. He was beginning to recognise the path, or at least, he thought he did; it may have been any other Yamato wood: silent, dark and wet. There seemed to be more cobwebs and vines than he remembered.
“Nobody walked down this path in a while,” he remarked.
“This is our greatest secret… How do you know about the Waters? Who are you? What was that flying monster?” The priest prodded for answers. He kept tripping over the roots and getting tangled in the vines.
Bran turned to answer, the girl cried, “Watch out!”, and pulled the two men into a wild azalea bush with her. Three Shadows passed beside them down the path, leaving behind a trail of dark slime.
“I knew it,” said Bran. “How far are we?”
“It’s here,” said the girl, raising her hand and pushing a thick cobweb aside. “Look.”
Before them stood the two great cedar trees Bran remembered so well, but the stone lantern was overturned, and the thatched roof of the small shrine building had fallen in. All over the glade, the Shadows slithered. Once every few seconds, a new monster crawled out of the shrine door.
“We have to seal it,” said Bran.
“How?” asked the priest.
“What? You’re asking me? It’s your shrine.”
The priest shook his head. “A ritual of some sort, maybe.”
Bran wiped his forehead with a muddied sleeve.
“Ugh. We don’t have time for rituals.”
He leapt out onto the glade, and stretched out his hands.
“Rhew!”
The dragon fire spurted from his palms. The Shadows recoiled and fled before his magic. He stepped forward, triumphant; the path to the cave was clear.
What now?
He shot fire again. The shrine building burst into flame, the remains of the thatched roof blazing, bright yellow, high into the sky.
“Behind you!” he heard the girl cry. He turned around. The Shadows had him surrounded, cut off from the other two. The girl hid behind a cedar tree, reaching a hand out towards him; the priest body glowed faint blue as he prayed, but the light could not pierce the Shadows creeping towards him.
A tentacle snapped at Bran, then another. The tarian buzzed and crackled. Bran felt a stinging pain in his leg, even though the shield held. If the tarian breaks, I’m done for…
He took a step back, then another. The heat of the burning shrine licked his back. Then, all the Shadows leapt at him at once. Panicked, he jumped away, straight into the flames, crashing through the scorched timber-frame. The earth split beneath him as he tumbled down the dark staircase, into the sulphur-filled cave.
He stood on the threshold of a gateway, looking in: a rectangle of massive beams of vermillion-painted stone, with the lintel extending over the sides. It was taller than him, but not by much — maybe seven feet, at most. Inside, a red darkness pulsated, sending waves of cold.
Bran looked to his feet, and around him; the ground was strewn with small, sharp, grey volcanic pebbles. He was on the slope of a mountain, raw and empty, shattered and cracked. Yellow and white fumes oozed from the jagged fissures. The sky was a sheet of steel grey. A small brook seeped across the slope to a crater lake below. The rest of the mountain — and the world beyond — was shrouded in a thick, white mist.
He coughed and gagged on the fumes. The darkness inside the vermillion gate rustled and squelched, buzzing with myriad voices. The Lance flickered feebly in his numb fingers.
A hesitant tentacle emerged from the gate, probing around. Bran stepped back, but not fast enough; the tentacle shot forward and wrapped itself around his legs. It pulled, throwing him off his feet. He scrambled away, tearing the skin off his hands on the sharp stones, but he could not escape. The Shadow dragged him ever closer to the red, pulsating darkness. More tentacles emerged from within; the sinister buzzing grew louder.
Bran heard a chime of brass on stone, and a jingle of bells. A bright white light burst above him. The gate trembled, and a sheet of silver, like a theatre curtain, fell, sealing the entrance. Only the single twitching tentacle remained outside. Bran stabbed it with his Lance and it vanished in smoke.
Still on his knees, he turned to see an old, thin man, wearing the plain light-brown robes of a Butsu monk. His skin was a tanned pink, papery, with bones showing through. A mask hid his face, a white theatrical mask, of the same sort Dōraku had been carrying in his bag. Beneath it, on his neck, was a leather cord with a round metal setting, empty. The man supported himself on a jingling metal staff, with a large, milky-white pearl glowing on the top. It was from this pearl that the white light shone onto the gateway.
Bran blinked. The man tipped his mask up just enough to show his face. He knew that face; it was similar to Dylan’s, but far older, gaunt, mature, and sporting a broad, white moustache.
“Soon you’ll start growing a tidy moustache then you’ll be the same dap exactly.”
“Tadcu.” Bran whispered.
“…chasing after some long lost dream, disappearing into Sun knows where.”
Ifor put a finger to his moustachioed lips. The world fell silent. He pointed to the wall of white mist. Two shadows appeared behind it, two silhouettes cast against the mist by some distant light. They were the shadows of a bear and a fox, climbing slowly closer towards the mountain top. An unseen blade cut through the bear, and it vanished; the fox stumbled, but moved on.
A resounding blow smashed against the silver sheet with the sound of a gong. The monk focused on the gateway. The knuckles grasping his staff turned pale. He raised it again. The white, blinding light shot from its end straight into Bran’s wide open eyes. The air around him grew fiery hot, the noise of falling stones and roaring flames rumbled in his ears. Somebody pulled him by the arm out into the cool of the night.
Bran woke up with a pounding headache. The priest stood above him with a paper lantern. He pushed it aside and sat up, still dizzy.
Hazy dawn crept from the east o
ver the Suwa courtyard, giving a purple tint to the green scales of Emrys. The starlings in the camphor trees launched a deafening chorus. A heavy, wet breeze ran up the slope from the bay.
“The Shadows,” Bran said, rubbing his temples.
“All gone,” said the priest. “We survived.”
“What happened?”
“A white light burst from the shrine,” the priest replied, “and when it vanished, the glade was clear.”
Bran looked around. They were alone in the quiet shrine. “Where’s the girl?”
“She ran after you into the fire, and… I found only you in the rubble,” the priest said. He straightened and gazed towards the forest. “The entrance to the Waters had caved in.” He didn’t have to explain any more.
“I’m sorry,” said Bran.
The priest raised his eyebrows. “It wasn’t your fault, Westerner.”
Then why do I feel so guilty?
Bran rubbed his eyes and climbed down from the veranda.
“What happened there?” the priest asked. “Did you summon the lights?”
“No, I did… nothing. There was a monk — ” He struggled to remember. The priest gave him a puzzled look. “I — I have to go back. To Dejima.”
He staggered towards Emrys. The dragon lowered its neck.
“Are we safe now?” the priest asked. “Will the monsters return?”
“They won’t,” Bran lied without turning back. “You’ll be alright.”
The bridge to Dejima was no more.
Only the timber pillars remained standing, their tops shattered open and charred like some gruesome black flowers. The remnants of the bridge boards bobbed in the water and between them floated some corpses, dressed in the tattered uniforms of Kiyō guards.
Bran landed clumsily on top of what remained of the ornate gate to the island. The Bataavian soldiers watched with weary disinterest as he climbed down from the dragon. Many bore bruises and scars, all were grey-faced and silent.
“Bran!”
His father wrapped his arms around him and held him in a long, tight embrace.
“You’re alive. I thought…Bran, are you hurt?”
Bran patted his father on the back awkwardly and weaselled out of the hug. He’d forgotten how unused he’d grown to physical affection. “I’m fine, tad. What on Owain’s beard happened to the bridge?”
Dylan walked up to the water’s edge. The rising sun glinted in his green eyes.
“Curzius decided to blow up the bridge; it’s been mined ever since the Phaeton incident. The monsters wouldn’t cross water.”
“I saw bodies in the sea.”
“Only Yamato,” said Dylan, and the tone of contempt in his voice made Bran gag. “We have a few wounded. Including Gwen,” he scowled. “She was on the first line of defence. As usual.”
“I’ve never heard of anything like this,” said Curzius, emerging from a nearby building. “I told you these people have secrets.” He wiped his hands on his coat, leaving a blood-red stain on the black velvet. “But, it may all yet come to our advantage. The city needs our protection, that much is obvious.” He kicked aside a piece of intricately carved wood from the gate’s sculpted frieze. “We should see the Magistrate as soon as possible.”
“You’re right,” said Dylan. “But first, I need to make sure my son is safe. How soon can the ship set sail?”
“The ship?” Bran did not understand at first. “No, Father — ”
“You’re sailing back to Qin. It’s too dangerous here.” Dylan’s tone left no place for discussion. “This won’t be a problem, will it, Curzius?”
The Overwizard nodded.
“What about Edern and his dragons?” said Bran. “What about you and Gwen?”
Dylan opened his mouth and took a breath to reply, but then changed his mind. He didn’t need to say anything. They both understood he had no plans to join Bran on board the Soembing.
CHAPTER VIII
She was naked and barefoot, standing on what felt like cold, soft stone. She was enveloped in thick, white mist; there was nothing around her, no sights, no sounds, just a sickly sweet smell of decay. The mist was so dense she could barely see her own hands raised in front of her face. She shivered with cold.
“Hello?” she called, but the mist muffled her voice. Something warm and furry rubbed against her legs. She leaned down and groped around. A wet tongue licked her fingers.
A cat?
She touched further, and felt a thick, bushy tail. At that moment, the animal leapt away, disappearing into the mist, leaving her alone again.
Despite her strange, unusual situation, Nagomi did not panic. In fact, she felt an odd sense of calm, almost resignation. She didn’t even remember how she’d got here, wherever here was. She was trying to recall her last moments, but the memory was fading fast, slipping out of her grasp like a dream in the morning.
Am I dead?
She made a few stumbling, random steps, but that changed nothing; the mist remained as thick in every direction, and the stone floor as cold and flat.
I must be dead, she concluded. This must be the place beyond the mountains that Shakushain-sama talked about.
She knelt down to pray, but couldn’t remember the words of any prayer, so she began to hum instead; it took her a while to recognise the melody: the lullaby her mother used to sing to her when she was a baby. The words were Bataavian, and Nagomi never learned what they meant, but she liked it because it reminded her of her family:
Schuitje varen, theetje drinken
Varen we naar de Overtoom
Drinken er zoete melk met room
Zoete melk met broken
Tien uur slaan de klokken
This must be my first ever memory, she realised. I really am dying. My mind is going — going — she couldn’t think of a word.
She felt the soft fur at her legs again. She leaned closer, and saw the small white fox looking at her with eyes like nuggets of gold. “Are you here to guide me to where the dead souls are?” she asked.
The fox wrinkled its nose. A gust of black wind tore the mist in two, forming a narrow, tunnel-like passage. At the end of the passage stood a slender figure clad in a robe of crimson silk.
Ganryū? Nagomi jumped back in fear. But no, this person was smaller and exuded none of the threatening presence of the Fanged. The priestess came closer.
“Kyokō!”
The undead girl ran up to Nagomi and grabbed her by the hand. Here, her body was whole, unblemished, and pure; there was no mistake now whom Kyokō’s face reminded her of.
She pulled the priestess with her, and together they ran through the mist, in silence; the ground sloped down, and Nagomi almost tumbled on the sudden drop, but Kyokō held strong to her wrist.
“Don’t fall,” she said through tight lips.
Nagomi had no idea how long they ran; there was no concept of time or distance in this land of nothingness. It may have been hours, or years. She didn’t feel tired, hungry or thirsty, and nothing changed around them, apart from the mist gradually growing thinner, and the slope growing steeper.
At last, they reached the shore of a narrow, shallow stream of murky, reddish water. The mist parted, revealing the tall mountains rising steep on the other side.
“How did you find me?” asked Nagomi as they waded through the stream. The water was unpleasantly warm and sticky.
“A white fox came to me in a vision,” replied Kyokō. “Who are you?”
“I am Itō Nagomi, of the Suwa Shrine,” the priestess replied. They were now on the other side, and her clothes reappeared as mysteriously as they had gone.
“Suwa.” Kyokō repeated. “Why do I know that name…?”
“It’s where one of your sisters was taken,” said Nagomi. “Ikō.”
“You know her then?” Kyokō covered her mouth with her hand.
Nagomi nodded. “And your other sister, too… Yokō in Kirishima…Now I’ve met all three of you.”
“That must
be what brings us together, but — why…?”
She grasped Nagomi hands again and closed her eyes. The priestess felt her mind prodded and exposed, and her memories laid bare, like an open book. The girl gasped and stepped back, her eyes wide open in shock.
“You — you destroyed him!”
“You mean Ganryū,” guessed Nagomi. “He hurt you too, didn’t he?”
“He made me what I am,” the girl looked away, wincing at her inner pain. “He had me drink terrible poisons that consumed me from inside and preserved my body from ever dying. I was — ”
“A sokukamibutsu,” said Nagomi quietly. “So that’s what he wanted to create. An immortal incarnation of Butsu that he could control completely.”
“I did die,” said Kyokō. They were now climbing the mountain pass. The dirt beneath Nagomi’s feet turned a now-familiar shade of bloody red. “Many times I would come here, wishing to never return to the land of the living, to the torture of the poison, and of his terrible touch, the prodding in my head, and the visions… he wanted me to read the future for him, but all I saw was darkness and death — or so I told him.” She stumbled on a small, sharp rock. “He thought I was a failure. But I knew he would perish one day — I saw his demise in my dreams.”
“That samurai last night—”
“I was sold to him by my creator… a discarded experiment. He promised to deliver me from this wretched life if I was true in my prophecies.”
“And you believed him?”
“I had no choice, Nagomi-sama. I cannot kill myself — I tried… but there is nothing left to kill. My insides are rotten, no blood is coursing through my veins and no air fills my lungs.”
They reached the top of the pass, from which spread a view over the entire red dust plain. Nagomi’s white shrine was a short distance away.
“You can reach the world of the living from here,” said Kyokō. “The Shadows will not hurt you today.”
“How do you know?”
The Withering Flame (The Year of the Dragon, Book 6) Page 10