Late Summer, Early Spring

by Patricia Correll

  “It wants us to find it. I told you.” Iwata rubbed the hairs between his fingers. It sent a tingle that wasn’t quite painful down his fingers into his hand.

  Hiroshi was already searching among the surrounding trees, pacing and pausing, stopping to crouch and examine the ground. Iwata dropped the fur. It fell and was lost among the dead leaves. He joined Hiroshi, widening the search by two paces.

  Something rustled in the trees nearer the waterfall. Iwata froze, listening. Hiroshi went still too. But the rustling faded, and there was no pain.

  They resumed their search.

  “Hiro.” Iwata waved him over. His face burned with excitement and anger.

  Hiroshi peered over his shoulder. Iwata pointed at a branch as big around as his forearm, broken long ago and half-buried in dead leaves. Half a dozen twigs jutted up from its body like fence staves. Every one had been snapped off, splintered near the thicker branch. Hiroshi’s eyes narrowed. His gaze absorbed the splintered twigs, then moved beyond. Past the branch the undergrowth was trampled.

  He turned to Iwata. “Ready?”

  For answer Iwata leaned forward and kissed him. Hiroshi lifted a hand and touched the back of Iwata’s neck. When they broke the kiss, he smiled, but his eyes glittered dangerously.

  They rose together and plunged again into the forest.

  In the afternoon Iwata stopped, cocking his head. “You smell that?”

  Hiroshi nodded. “Salt. We’ve reached the other side of the island.”

  After half an hour, the trees thinned. Iwata began to see solid blue sky between the trunks. The trees grew sparser and shorter, twisted by the sea air.

  Iwata and Hiroshi emerged from the forest onto a shelf of rock. There was no beach here. Forty feet away the sea swirled and roiled. Between the water and the forest lay a field of rock, tumbled and shattered like dropped crockery. It was dark gray, sticking up at odd angles like broken teeth, some nearly as high as Iwata’s chest. The rock field stretched to either side as far as Iwata could see.

  Hiroshi moved forward, picking his way among the jagged rocks. Iwata followed him to the sea. The stone shifted beneath his feet, small bits breaking off and clattering between the larger rocks. The spray the ocean flung up dotted Iwata’s face. He dragged his sleeve across his eyes, blinking as the salt water stung them. Farther out the sea was the same garish blue as the sky. The spring day had turned warmer. Iwata shrugged out of his jacket. A tide pool had gathered in a crack between rocks. A palm-sized crab the color of old blood scuttled into the water.

  Hiroshi shielded his eyes with his hand, squinting out at the glittering water. “This is where it chooses to confront us?”

  Iwata pressed his heel into the rock, testing its solidity. A sheet of stone splintered under his foot and slid away. He scowled at it. Hiroshi turned in a slow circle, scanning the forest and the sea as if he thought the fox might burst out of the water or the trees or even the rock beneath their feet.

  Iwata shook his head. “It came for us at the Hour of the Lotus last time.”

  Hiroshi’s eyes narrowed in thought. “But that grants us hours to examine the landscape, to compose a strategy.”

  “Before, it chose to fight us in Prince Narita’s bedchamber, a room I knew as well as my own tent. It’s not afraid of us, Hiro. It never was.”

  Hiroshi sighed. “I’d rather face it in the forest than out here. There’s no good footing on these rocks.”

  “But there’s no room to maneuver among the trees. Two bad choices, unless you learn to swim right now.”

  Hiroshi laughed, but it ended abruptly, sliced off as if by a blade. He’d heard how jarring it sounded in this place.

  They camped among the stunted trees, bedding down on the sparse grass. Iwata slept first, his back pressed against a twisted little trunk. He fell asleep quickly, but his dreams were haunted by a white beast with bloody jaws, seven tails, and eyes as green as spring grass. He woke with no feeling of having rested.

  Hiroshi didn’t take his turn. He leaned against the tree beside Iwata, gazing at the beach. Neither spoke. Two men against a creature centuries old, immensely powerful. A creature they’d barely managed to wound before. And now Iwata was crippled by the thing’s presence. Likely they would both die on this barren strip of land.

  Iwata didn’t fear death. He couldn’t remember a time when he had. And if he was going to die, there was no one he’d rather have by his side than Hiroshi. He turned to look at his lover, to find Hiroshi already watching him. Hiroshi’s expression didn’t change under Iwata’s scrutiny, but he lifted his free hand and touched Iwata’s face, stroking the curve of his jaw.

  “Have you written your death poem?” Iwata asked. Every soldier or noble—anyone who could write, really—penned a death poem and kept it with him, to be read after his demise. Iwata had written one years before, but it had vanished into the sea with most of his belongings.

  “Yes,” Hiroshi said. “The village healer had some ink and paper. It’s in my pack.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  Hiroshi’s eyes widened, and Iwata added, “It was lost in the ocean.”

  “But if Lord General Iwata were to die without a death poem—”

  “If Iwata Sho dies without a death poem, no one will care. Except my lover, and I’ll tell it to you when you reach the afterlife.”

  “If the fox succeeds in killing us both, I’ll be there first. You’re the better warrior, Sho.”

  “There’s no one I’d rather die with.”

  Hiroshi leaned against him. He took Iwata’s hand in his. They were silent, holding each other.

  THE SUN sank slowly but relentlessly. Iwata and Hiroshi hardly moved. Iwata was keenly aware of Hiroshi’s warmth, his even breathing, his hand wrapped tightly in Iwata’s own. The peace of these hours as the light faded would end at the Hour of the Lotus, when night passed into day. He watched Hiroshi until night descended and covered his features.

  The moon rose nearly full, gleaming dull silver. The stars followed, a dozen at a time, until the sky was thick with them. Watery light washed over the rocks and trees and frosted the sea. Iwata tilted his head back, tracking the movements of the stars. Hiroshi must have been doing the same, for just as Iwata moved to rise, he touched Iwata’s shoulder. He reached for Iwata at the same moment Iwata reached for him. Their lips met gently. Hiroshi rested his hands on Iwata’s chest.

  “I love you.” His voice was hoarse.

  “I love you, Hiro. I always did.”

  They stepped apart. After leaving their packs beneath a tree, they stepped out onto the rocks. The combined light of the moon and stars revealed the largest cracks and crevasses, but the loose rocks and narrower cracks were invisible. The evening chill set in, drawing goose bumps to the surface of Iwata’s skin. They turned and faced the forest. Iwata didn’t try to strain his eyes in the dimness. Instead he slowed his breathing and listened for any sound above the rolling waves and the pulse of his own heartbeat. He held his katana loosely. He couldn’t afford to begin a fight with a stiff wrist. He felt Hiroshi beside him, equally relaxed, equally watchful. The minutes stretched out.

  Iwata felt it before he heard it. A sense of being struck a blow to his chest, followed immediately by the crushing, seizing pain of the fox. He resisted the urge to catch onto Hiroshi, to curl up like a dead leaf. He stiffened his legs and clenched his teeth. Beside him Hiroshi tensed, but didn’t reach for Iwata.

  A movement snagged Iwata’s gaze. Slowly he forced his head to turn toward it. A massive body, white fur tinged silver in the moonlight. Pointed face, ears pinned back, eyes close together—in the night they seemed to glow green. It stepped free of the forest, revealing seven closely bunched tails, each tipped bloody red. They lashed back and forth slowly, deliberately. The creature didn’t pause when it saw them, but ambled almost casually over the broken rocks, head lowered. Its mouth hung open to reveal yellowed fangs. Even on the shifting slate, its approach made no sound Iwata could hear.
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  The pain didn’t increase as the fox drew nearer. Concentrating on the beast helped Iwata shut away a portion of it, enough to loosen his grip on his katana. The fox halted a dozen feet from them. Iwata shifted his weight. Pain gnawed at him. He fixed his gaze on those hard, brilliant green eyes, summoning his rage.

  Fools. The fox’s voice echoed weirdly. Its jaw didn’t move, but the voice was piercing. The creature lifted its paw, then planted it firmly back among the rocks. Finally we are all together again. And I shall finish what I began so long ago.

  Iwata started. The creature’s uncomfortable shifting. A tiny waver in its tone. A light in its cold gaze.

  “It’s hurting,” he hissed to Hiroshi. As Iwata was affected by the fox, the fox was affected by Iwata, or Hiroshi—they’d both wounded it once.

  It took three of you to scratch me before. The fox sneered.

  Why wasn’t it attacking? It was trying to banish its own pain, gathering its strength the same way Iwata was.

  “There are three of us now.”

  The voice came from the direction of the trees, where Iwata and Hiroshi had spent the evening. Iwata knew the voice and so didn’t turn toward it. He couldn’t afford surprise. The beast’s ear swiveled toward the sound, but it was otherwise still.

  Hiroshi answered. “Nephew.”

  Iwata heard Daigo sliding over the rocks toward them. In the corner of his vision, he saw the young man, holding one of the fishing spears the village men used, his face split into a savage grin that was a mirror of his father’s before a battle. He halted next to Iwata and brandished the spear with a smooth movement that told the older man he’d been practicing with it a while, unnoticed by his companions.

  “It seems I’m a better tracker than I thought,” Daigo said. “Even you didn’t notice me, monster.”

  The fox laughed, a harsh sound that grated against Iwata’s humming nerves. Because you’re beneath my notice, cub. You’re the weakest one here.

  “Then come kill me,” Daigo snarled.

  Gladly.

  The fox sank into a crouch and sprang. Iwata stepped away from Daigo and turned, giving himself space to jab at the fox if he saw a chance. A blur of white fur passed him, and Daigo jumped back, thrusting his spear forward. The creature’s smell—acrid fur, old blood—gagged Iwata. He swung his sword at the thing’s ribs, but the burning ache in his shoulder made it impossible to extend his arm all the way. He missed, and the fox flowed past him.

  “It’s in pain,” he snapped to Daigo. The young man nodded and circled around to flank the fox. Hiroshi hadn’t moved, but held the wakizashi ready to strike. The creature skidded and twisted around, jaws snapping at Iwata’s arm. He jerked away. The throb in his arms was slowing him down—but the fox was slower too. Eight years before, the thing would have sunk its fangs into his skin.

  Daigo backed away cautiously, waiting for the older men’s lead. The fox’s tongue lolled over its black lips as if it were laughing at them. It swung its head toward Iwata. Hiroshi seized the opportunity to lunge. Without sparing him a glance, the fox lifted a hind leg—the one missing a toe, Iwata saw—and slammed its huge paw into Hiroshi’s chest. Hiroshi staggered back, barely keeping his feet.

  “Uncle!” Daigo cried. He prepared to launch his spear at the fox, but froze when the beast spoke.

  Daigo. The voice was Lady Kumomo’s.

  “Don’t listen!” Hiroshi sounded ragged.

  Son. My son. The fox was shifting, changing. Its fur shrank and melted, its muzzle vanished. The tails folded in, like a lump of clay being molded in a potter’s hands.

  Daigo’s eyes were glassy. As the fox’s shape began to resolve into a human with long black hair, Iwata threw all his concentration into keeping his hand steady. He swung his katana at the figure’s neck—he’d beheaded men with it before. He faintly heard Daigo groan.

  The false Kumomo dodged away, her silken hair swaying. Iwata’s foot struck a loose rock, wrenching his knee—a sharp spike of pain in the general sea of it. Something touched his arm. Hiroshi, helping him balance. He leaned in close.

  “The sea,” Hiroshi hissed. Then he stepped away.

  Iwata looked past him. Daigo was staring at the fox with his mother’s face. The tip of the spear he held dipped lower. Something glistened on his cheeks.

  Hiroshi slapped his shoulder. “Daigo!”

  Daigo. The creature smiled. It looked exactly like Iwata’s memory of Lady Kumomo. I remember she said your name before she died.

  Before it finished speaking, Iwata knew Daigo couldn’t endure it. Iwata readied his sword, but Hiroshi was quicker. With a wordless cry, Daigo rushed at the beast, thrusting with his fishing spear. Hiroshi lunged from another angle with the wakizashi. But the fox melted again. Lady Kumomo’s delicate features ran and flowed. Hiroshi froze—he had seen this trick before—but Daigo’s momentum carried him forward. The spear pierced nothing but air, and Daigo stumbled. He struck something with a thud. An answering yelp made Iwata smile grimly.

  Hiroshi watched him, his chest heaving. Daigo backed away. A little white dog disentangled itself from his feet and crept toward Iwata, ears back, tail wagging hopefully.

  “Snow?” Daigo muttered in disbelief.

  Hiroshi edged closer, and Iwata saw his plan. The three of them formed a semicircle around the creature. Behind it lay only the sea.

  Gritting his teeth, Iwata sank into a crouch. He held out his free hand. “Snow, here.” The dog crept closer. Iwata laid his katana on the ground, his fingertips resting on the hilt. Daigo opened his mouth, but a hiss from Hiroshi silenced him. Iwata focused on the dog. Her brown eyes glistened wetly. Her nose quivered. And then her small muzzle was in his free hand, tongue lapping at his palm. Her deep-set eyes turned up to his. Her jaw opened wide, then wider.

  Iwata’s fingers closed around the katana. He brought it up and sideways with enough force to pierce the animal’s flank. The tip of the blade emerged from the other side of its torso, dripping silvery blood.

  The dog’s face split open in a howl of rage that filled Iwata’s aching bones with ice. He struggled to pull his sword free as the dog’s head cleaved in two, becoming a mouth bristling with yellow teeth. The creature’s body swelled like a bloating corpse, forcing Iwata’s blade free and knocking him backward. A sharp rock bit into his thigh. Iwata scrambled to his feet, panting. His vision blurred. He backed off and tried to focus.

  The fox was itself again. Its side was matted with blood that glowed silver in the moonlight. Its green eyes narrowed with hate. It didn’t speak, but roared like a bear, a hoarse, raging sound that sent stabbing pain into Iwata’s head. Before he could regain his senses, the creature crouched and leaped, barreling directly at him. He raised his katana. He might yet be able to gut the thing.

  Something slammed into the fox from the side. The fox dropped to the ground a foot from Iwata and twisted around, snapping at Daigo’s spear where it protruded from its flank.

  “The sea,” Iwata rasped. “Drive it into the water.”

  Daigo nodded to show he’d heard. Suddenly he darted forward, hand outstretched to retrieve his weapon. Hiroshi shouted something Iwata couldn’t make out, but it was too late: the fox spun and snapped its jaws at Daigo’s reaching hand. He jerked his arm back into his sleeve. The spear remained in the beast’s side, the shaft heaving as it breathed.

  As soon as Daigo was clear, Hiroshi rushed at the fox. The beast backed up a step, swinging a huge paw at Hiroshi, who darted away. A step nearer the clamoring waves. Before it could move forward again, Hiroshi attacked and retreated the same way. The fox appeared to have lost all reason. Maddened by the pain of the spear, its green eyes rolled wildly. Ropes of slaver hung from its jaws. It snapped and snarled like any animal.

  Iwata raised his katana. This time when Hiroshi retreated, he attacked. The beast backed away but lashed at him with its paw. It had the force of a horse’s kick, hitting Iwata between the shoulder blades. He wasn’t as quick as Hiroshi, especially
fighting off pain as he was. The blow sent him to his knees. He managed to keep hold of his sword. Iwata scrambled to his feet, panting. Hiroshi had resumed his attack on the fox with fresh ferocity. Iwata clenched his teeth and joined him. Silver drops of blood spattered them both. The metallic smell of it twisted Iwata’s stomach. He swiped at the fox, careful not to nick Hiroshi’s sword—the blades could shear each other off.

  Suddenly the fox made a startled sound, a cross between a yelp and a snarl. Iwata glanced down. Cold water lapped at the front edge of his sandal. The fox’s huge paws were planted in water deep enough to cover its toes. It splashed, lifting its feet one by one out of the sea, shaking its head in desperation. It was going to charge forward, out of the ocean. Iwata caught Hiroshi’s gaze and knew he also saw what it intended. Together they lunged at the creature, aiming their shoulders into its wounded side. Iwata struck the back end, Hiroshi near the head. The shaft of Daigo’s spear hovered between them.

  The impact shuddered up Iwata’s arm. The fox’s tails beat at him, dry fur raking his skin. Hiroshi fended off its snapping mouth with the wakizashi. Iwata wrapped his stiff fingers around the spear shaft and leaned his weight against it. The spear sank deeper. Silvery blood erupted from the wound, spilling over Iwata’s hand. It was cold, as cold as the seawater the beast was trying so desperately to escape.

  Something else struck the fox’s body. Iwata glanced up in time to see Daigo crash into the creature’s flank. He grabbed the spear haft and pushed. The fox finally succumbed to their combined weight and its own injuries. It collapsed on its side, head out toward the sea. The water was deeper there, and the fox twisted its muzzle, trying to keep its nostrils above water. Hiroshi dropped the wakizashi and flung himself at its neck. The fox’s legs jerked and flailed. Daigo still leaned on the spear, though it had ceased to sink any deeper.

  The beast’s head jerked up. Its jaws closed around Hiroshi’s arm, and he disappeared behind the white mound of the fox’s body.