Dead Souls

by Campbell, Ramsey; Warren, Kaaron; Finch, Paul; McMahon, Gary; Hood, Robert; Stone, Michael; Mark S. Deniz

  “The Snow Maiden poured herself liquid through the gap and rose reborn from the snowdrift below. Her face was terrifying, filled with a grotesque blend of rage and beauty. The priest faced her and ordered her back from whence she came, but she laughed and mocked him.”

  Ernst felt the chair lurch, looked down and saw the snow slide away from his feet. The chair did not sit on a hillock as he had thought, but rather on a raised turntable. It was rotating into the west, where the sky was bleeding over the snow. He dropped his head and closed his eyes.

  Gregor reached out and slapped Ernst on the cheek. “No sleeping yet, my friend. The tale is almost told. The priest held the Snow Maiden back, though for how long was uncertain. The village men bowed at her feet while the women shrieked in rage and cursed her power to enthral. At last Katerinka reached her groom and brushed her lips across his own.”

  The chair lurched a few inches more toward the setting sun. Ernst retched and spat out a clot of bile. The haunting song filled his ears as the cold sapped his strength. The blood from his wounds froze in rivulets down his face.

  “As a sleeper awakens, the groom shook off the Snow Maiden’s spell. He offered to strike a bargain with her. If she would release Witterstadt and restore peace to the village, he vowed the village would honour her with annual tributes.”

  The chair took another lurch, now forty-five degrees from its original position. Ernst let his head fall forward again and the edges of his vision grew dark.

  Gregor slapped Ernst once more, and a thin trickle of blood ran down his chin as he snapped awake.

  “The Snow Maiden stiffened her back and grew taller than anyone in the crowd. A dark red halo of light surrounded her, and no one could bear to look directly at her face. Her words are remembered and told from one generation to the next in Witterstadt. I repeat them now as I learned them from my father and he from his father for countless years.”

  Gregor laced his hands behind his back, and his companions snapped to attention. “Foolish humans! You have amused me with your impudence and therefore I will accept the bargain, though on my terms. I will claim one sacrifice now, of my choosing. Each year hence, on the anniversary of this day you are to build a snow maiden to host my spirit. Seek out and bring to me those who have a heart for battle, those who do not shy from spilling innocent blood. If the sacrifice pleases me, your pitiful village will remain safely frozen until the next year. It shall be forever winter, cold and dark, the price you pay for peace.”

  Gregor relaxed his stance and sighed. “Then the Snow Maiden seized the priest, pursed her lips and blew across his face. Thick frost clogged his nostrils, while his eyes were fixed open and iced over. She plunged her fingers into his chest and withdrew his heart; it beat but once and stopped dead in her hand. She lifted it to her lips and bit into it slowly and sensuously as a lover takes a strawberry from another’s mouth. His blood stained her lips, and yet no one looked away.”

  The chair took another lurch and Ernst saw before him a snowman. A childlike creation of three balls of snow, largest on the bottom, it looked harmless. His vision swam into clearer focus and he noticed this was not a snowman, but had smaller mounds of snow in strategic places lending a feminine physique.

  Gregor clapped Ernst on the shoulder. “How fortunate for us that you brought the front to Witterstadt. After all these years it has become hard to find a warlike spirit, as no one wants to become the sacrifice. Your comrades perished before we could finish the maiden, but I think you will suffice.”

  The song grew stronger and the snow maid began to quake. Fissures formed in the hard-packed snow and a deep red glow burst forth through the cracks. Gregor snatched a handful of Ernst’s hair and jerked his head upright as the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen emerged from the snow.

  She smiled at Ernst and he felt warmth return to his fingers and toes, or at least they were tingling now. He felt the bindings fall from his wrists and ankles and somehow stood pain-free on his broken leg. He held out his arms and took a faltering step toward the woman, entranced by her beauty and the song that resonated in his soul.

  She pulled him into her arms, breathed across his face and ripped his heart from his chest. She held it aloft and it took three slow beats before it stopped forever. Ernst collapsed on the snow, a look of wonder and peace on his face.

  Gregor and his companions stood unable to look away as the Snow Maiden consumed her tribute. She stepped over Ernst’s corpse and patted Gregor on the cheek.

  The sun dropped from sight as a frigid wind swept the clearing driving needles of snow into the old men’s eyes. When they opened them, the clearing was dark and the Snow Maiden was gone. They carried the body away and burned it, and returned to their homes, sure of another year of peace now that the price had been paid.

  ****

  your duty to your lord

  James R. Stratton

  Otsu slid out of her futon nestled among baskets of vegetables in the kitchen of Jiro’s noodle shop and stole to the lake to wash in the pre-dawn shadows, creeping cautious as a kitten sneaking past wild dogs. The Spring after her parents died, she’d stumbled into a pack of boys while running an errand for her employer. They’d groped her and said disgusting things.

  “We want a woman for sex, not babies,” the biggest one had said. “You’ll be ready next year.” They’d shoved her into a ditch and walked away laughing.

  Otsu thanked the gods over and over that day that she was small for her age. Ever since, she had slipped to the outskirts of Isida township, wafting through the shadows like a ghost, trembling at every noise. She carried her father’s tanto now, but couldn’t imagine what she’d do with it if she was attacked again.

  She was hurrying back to the noodle shop, damp from the lake, her spare kimono wet and bundled up after being rinsed out, when the noise of the street crowd died away. The tradesmen and townsfolk parted before shouting horsemen wearing silk hitotare jackets embroidered with Lord Ieyshu’s family crest. Otsu stepped back against the tea shop wall, staring at fierce samurai, then gulped when the troop halted opposite her with a rousing “Hai!”. A tall man with coal-black hair and fierce eyes sat astride a giant gelding, its white coat glowing in the sunlight. The warrior wore spotless hakama trousers and a hitotare jacket embroidered with gold thread.

  This must be Lord Ieyshu.

  Without thinking, she darted over and clutched his trouser leg, her head barely reaching his boot as she stared up wide-eyed. She had no idea what she thought she was doing. Pain exploded in her side as a footman kicked her, shouting, “What do you think you are doing, little bird? Are you a spy? Or an assassin?”

  The soldier jerked her away by the hair and slapped her. “Eh? Nothing to say? Well, we shall see!” He yanked her kimono open so that she was exposed naked and shouted when the tanto fell out. “Just as I thought! An assassin! I wager the blade is poisoned as well!” He threw Otsu down and jerked the blade from its short scabbard. Grinning, he held the blade against her throat. “Shall we find out? Or do you wish to confess?”

  “Hold, Honzo!” Lord Ieyshu leaned over, glaring. “She is a child. Let her up.” He stared at Otsu as she sat up, pulling her kimono closed, red-faced. “Well girl, what have you to say? It is a crime to approach me without leave. Especially with a weapon!”

  Otsu shook as tears streamed down her face. She was panting so hard she couldn’t speak. The townsfolk lining the street stood staring, grim-faced. Across the road she spotted Jiro standing in the doorway of the noodle shop, watching wide-eyed and open-mouthed. When their eyes met, he reared back, shook his head and ran into the kitchen.

  Otsu took a deep breath. Jiro was a good man. He had given her a place to stay after the fire, and gave her two meals a day. In return, she played her bamboo flute, the shinobue, and swept up. But when she complained about the boys, he only clucked and shook his head.

  Otsu sighed and straightened her shoulders. Kneeling, she bowed until her forehead brushed the dirt. “I am sorry,
Lord. I meant no disrespect. I have been alone since my parents died. You remind me of my father. The short sword was his. I carry it for protection.”

  Lord Ieyshu sighed and held out his hand. The footman slapped the unsheathed sword into it. The Diamyo turned the blade in the sunlight, his face twisting with surprise. He then examined Otsu. His gaze paused on her silk kimono, her freshly scrubbed face, and the shinobue tied across her back.

  “Well, the blade isn’t poisoned, and is certainly the work of Masamane Jetetsu. This should be part of a matched set, tanto and katana. Do you have the long sword? And who was your father? I have searched for a Masamane sword for my collection for years.” He gazed again at the blade, gleaming in the sun.

  “My father was Saito Toshiro, a samurai in your service until he was injured in battle. I have the katana in a safe place. The two blades have been in my family for generations.”

  Lord Ieyshu nodded, sheathed the blade and thrust the short-sword into his sash. “Fetch her things, especially the katana,” he said to the footman. “Bring her.”

  He swung off his horse and strode away.

  ****

  Otsu knelt on the tatami mat squeezing her shinobue so hard her hands shook. Lord Ieyshu sat on the dais examining the swords, nodding and smiling.

  “You’ve taken good care of these. Where did you learn to oil and polish blades?”

  “My father always cleaned and oiled them, even after he was injured. I watched. He was proud of them. Many times he said they would pass to me and mine once I married a samurai.” Her gaze dropped to the mat. “But he died.”

  Lord Ieyshu set the blades on the tatami mat, gestured for her to play her flute, then turned to a small shrine behind him. As she played soft, wailing music, he offered sake and burnt incense to his ancestors. Inside the shrine was a scroll wrapped in embroidered silk. Her father had such a scroll, his family history dating back centuries, lost in the fire. After bowing and praying, Lord Ieyshu turned back to her.

  “You play beautifully, Otsu-san. Did your mother teach you?”

  Otsu nodded.

  Lord Ieyshu gestured and she handed him the bamboo flute. “This isn’t an old instrument! The bamboo is fresh! Did you make this?”

  Otsu nodded again. “My mother taught me. It is not nearly as nice as hers.” Otsu drew a shuddering breath. “It was the best I could make.”

  Lord Ieyshu tugged at his moustache and nodded. “My chief steward made inquiries in town and confirmed your circumstances. You have no family here in Omi Province?”

  “No, I have no one. My parents never spoke of other family. Their parents died before I was born, and I have never met any relatives.”

  “So how will you live? There is no one to look after you?” When she did not respond, he blew a puff of air from his lips and frowned. “I can’t abide that. Your father was injured in my service. I owe him a debt. Would you be willing join my personal staff? I’ve needed a new maid since Yami married. Your duties would be simple, just running errands for me, playing that wonderful music for me when I am in the mood, really just taking care of little things I need every day.” He handed her back the shinobue and smiled. “Well?”

  Otsu gulped. He is offering me a home! A place to sleep and eat and bathe and live. Her gaze drifted to the matched swords on the mat. A trade? Is that what this is?

  “And my father’s swords?”

  He laughed. “You need not worry. They are yours, an heirloom of your house. But for now I will keep the katana in my strong-house. A matched set of Masamane blades would fetch a handful of gold in Osaka, with no questions asked. You are fortunate you never showed these to anyone else. There are some who would slit your throat for them.” He handed back the short sword. “Carry this if you like, but keep it out of sight.”

  Smiling, Otsu bowed, clutching the tanto tight.

  ****

  She soon surprised Lord Ieyshu with her courtly skills. Her mother had taught Otsu flower arranging, the tea ceremony, calligraphy and poetry writing, as well as the flute. She became indispensable. By New Year’s Day, Lord Ieyshu allowed no one else to wait on him. She served his meals, sat in on his meetings to keep notes and draft letters, and looked after his clothes and quarters. Many nights she slept on a quilt outside his door in case he needed her. When he visited other daimyo, she rode ahead with his samurai to arrange his quarters and meals.

  Most important for Otsu, Lord Ieyshu never showed her any disrespect, treating her with courtesy and modesty. Indeed, when one samurai, drunk on sake, tried to force himself on her, Lord Ieyshu came running with sword drawn. Red-faced and seething, he wanted to behead the fool on the spot until Otsu interceded.

  And then, on one of Lord Ieyshu’s frequent trips to the Capital, she met Rikya. He was a young samurai in Lord Ieyshu’s service. After that day, she and Rikya rode side-by-side on trips. The following spring, he proposed marriage. Lord Ieyshu himself sat with young Rikya and negotiated the contract, paid her dowry, and personally planned the wedding. When Otsu’s son was born, Lord Ieyshu hosted the naming banquet and insisted on holding the baby throughout the meal.

  Her life was full. She spent most of her time with Lord Ieyshu, but she and Rikya had a small house on the grounds. She had no higher hopes for herself, Rikya and her son than to be in Lord Ieyshu’s service.

  ****

  Otsu jerked upright on her futon, waking Rikya as she did. “What is wrong?” he mumbled.

  “Fire! I smell smoke! Something is burning!” Her gaze darted around the room, but everything was fine. The baby was sleeping in a basket in the corner. A lamp flickering in the hallway showed everything was in order. As Otsu sat up, the iron clang of an alarm resounded across the compound.

  Otsu snatched up her tanto and ran into the hall. Her maid, Yuki, scurried to her.

  “Otsu-san, it is terrible! The main house is on fire! Is it an attack? What should we do?”

  Otsu grabbed the young woman by the shoulders. “Calm down! We are safe here. Look after my baby. I am going to see what I can do.” Behind her Rikya shouted, but she ignored him.

  Please, not like last time! Not like my parents! Lord Ieyshu must be safe...

  Hiking up her thin yukata, she sprinted barefoot across the compound towards the orange glow of the blaze, short-sword drawn. Samurai ran from all directions shouting, many carrying buckets. She heard Lord Ieyshu’s voice and found him surrounded by his guard in the main courtyard.

  “I must go back in! You dragged me out before I could get my things. The family scroll! My swords! The proclamation from the Emperor! I must save them!” The chief steward stood in front of Lord Ieyshu with a dozen samurai.

  “Please, Lord,” the steward said as he bowed over and over. “Calm yourself. We will do what we can. We had no choice, the fire was too close. If you died, we would be lost, leaderless and homeless. Think of your servants, your samurai. We all depend on you.”

  Slowly, gently, the steward took Lord Ieyshu’s hand and drew him away from the conflagration. The Daimyo jerked free and stood clenched-fisted, trembling.

  Otsu stepped around the grim-faced samurai and bowed. “Come along, Sire. There’s nothing for you to do. The risk is much too great.”

  “But my things! I have to save the scroll at least. It recites my family history back five centuries. It is my duty as the head of the Watanabe clan to save that. My father entrusted it to me when I became the head of the family — and his father before him into the mists of time.”

  Otsu drew a shuddering breath and faced the blazing building. She could see that only the front sections of the main house were ablaze. But even as she watched, the wood and paper walls along the far side flashed into flames.

  “I will get the scroll,” she muttered without thinking. “Yes, I will get it,” she said louder. She nodded to the samurai. “Get him to safety. This might be part of a sneak attack. Hurry!” The samurai huddled into a tight knot around Lord Ieyshu and pulled him away as he shouted.

&n
bsp; Otsu stared at the conflagration, trembling as she considered what to do. But how can I refuse? I owe him everything. She tied her yukata robe tight and tucked her tanto inside, then ran to the rear of the blazing building as sparks popped and crackled around her, singeing her hair. But at the back of the palace all was quiet, the fire still confined to the front. I can get in and out if I am quick. She ran through the garden behind Lord Ieyshu’s rooms and pushed open the soji screen.

  The roar of flames whooshed as the wind whistled overhead. In the flickering light, the hall looked quiet; normal. But in Lord Ieyshu’s residence, in the heart of the palace, everything was chaos. Smoke filled the hall, causing Otsu to hack and wheeze. The shoji screens to various rooms hung open, revealing clothing and futons tossed aside as the occupants fled. Twice she tripped over loaded trays, the bowls and flasks scattered across the mats, dropped as servants ran. Near Lord Ieyshu’s quarters, the smoke glowed a lurid red.

  She darted in and slammed the shoji screen shut. The paper walls glowed from the flames outside, revealing the scroll nestled on its altar. As she darted across the room, there was a roar, and the floor shook.

  The house is collapsing!

  She snatched up the scroll and turned to the doorway. Flames danced behind the shoji screen casting wild shadows, and the heavy paper blackened and smoked.

  Otsu knelt before the family shrine with the scroll. After all he’s done for me, I’m going to fail him. Tears burned as she stared at the heirloom. No, I won’t have it! To think was to act. She drew her tanto and held it up. At least I can try.

  She opened her robe, staring at the unsheathed blade. Her skin crawled as she pressed the razor edge against her stomach, her hand shaking so hard she almost dropped the blade. Behind her the paper walls crackled as flames flared through.