Shadow of the Fox

by Julie Kagawa

  We emerged from the bamboo into a deeper, darker part of the forest. Here, ancient trees grew close together, intertwining branches nearly shutting out the sun. Thin streams of light cut weakly through the leaves, dappling the forest floor, and the air had a still, almost reverent feel. Curious kodama, the tree spirits of the forest, peered at us from behind leaves or followed us down the trail, their ethereal green bodies no larger than my finger.

  Tanuki-baba led me along a familiar babbling brook, over a tiny arched bridge that was being eaten by toadstools and fungi, and toward a wooden hut that had been completely swallowed by moss. Long, long ago, she’d said, it had belonged to a yamabushi, a wandering priest who sought harmony and balance within nature, who could see and communicate directly with the kami. But that mortal had moved on or died, and the hut was now hers. Part of the thatched roof had fallen in and trees and brush surrounded it; if you didn’t know there was a dwelling there, you might miss it in the vegetation. The interior, as always, was a mess, with junk piled in every corner and along every wall.

  “Sit,” Tanuki-baba gruffed, gesturing to a low wooden table in the center of the floor, the only clear space in the room. “I’ll make us some tea—assuming I can find the pot, that is.”

  There were two or three teapots resting in different places throughout the clutter. I didn’t say anything, because my suggestions were always met with refusal. That teapot was cracked, or dirty, or had a family of birds living in it. No, the right teapot was here, somewhere, and only she could find it. I knelt at the wooden table until Tanuki-baba finally stumbled upon what she was looking for, an ancient and dinged iron pot, and yanked it out of the pile.

  “Empty,” she sighed, peering in the top. “That’s good, I suppose. No mice this time. Means I have to fill it up, though. I’ll be right back,” she told me, waddling out again. “Don’t touch anything.”

  I waited patiently, rolling little flames of kitsune-bi across the table surface, while Tanuki-baba filled the teapot, set it on the brazier and lit the coals at the bottom. She then bustled about the room, taking things from the clutter along the walls and muttering to herself. Finally, she returned to the table with the teapot, two chipped cups and a tray bearing the fish she had caught, still raw and unscaled, laid out in a row.

  “Ahhh,” she sighed, settling onto the threadbare pillow opposite me. After several moments of shifting around and making herself comfortable, she took off her hat and tossed it in a corner, where it blended into the clutter. Politely, I dropped my gaze, careful not to glance at the round, furry ears that poked up from the top of her gray head. “Go on and pour the tea, cub,” Tanuki-baba ordered, waving a hand at the pot and cups. “At least make yourself useful.”

  I carefully poured a thin green liquid into the two cups, then offered one to her. She took it with a crooked smile and set it down before her.

  “You don’t mind if I switch forms while we eat, do you?” she asked, eyeing the tray of fish in the center of the table. “This body is more useful for tea-making, but I’d rather be comfortable in my own house.”

  I shook my head. “Not at all, Tanuki-baba. Please do.”

  She snorted, raised her head and shook herself. Dust flew everywhere, rising from her body like a cloud, swirling into the room. I sneezed, turning away from the explosion, and when I glanced back, a furry brown creature with a dark mask and a bushy tail sat where the old woman had been. I set a teacup in front of her, and she picked it up with two dark brown paws before raising it to her narrow muzzle.

  “Ah, much better.” She put the cup down with a clink and snatched a fish from the tray, tossing the whole thing into her jaws before crunching down with sharp yellow teeth. “Now,” she continued, as I sipped my tea. It was far more bitter than I liked, but it wasn’t polite to say so. “Tell me then, cub. What kind of trouble have you gotten into with those humans of yours?”

  Briefly, I told her about my trick with the candles this evening, and how it had infuriated the monks, particularly Denga-san. When I got to the part about Denga wanting Master Isao to seal away my magic, Tanuki-baba gave a violent snort and nearly knocked over her teacup.

  “Ridiculous,” she growled, taking the last fish and biting into it with the snapping of delicate bones. “Binding a yokai’s magic, hah! It is blasphemous to even suggest such a thing. I wouldn’t put up with that sort of nonsense.”

  “What should I do, Tanuki-baba?”

  “Well, I know what I would do in that situation,” Tanuki-baba said, an evil look crossing her masked face. “But you’re probably too young for such chaos. And the solution is obvious, is it not? You need to leave.”

  “The monks don’t like that,” I said. “They’re always very cross when I run off like this. I’ll probably get a scolding when I return tonight.”

  “No,” Tanuki-baba growled. “You need to leave...and not go back.”

  “You mean...leave the temple permanently?”

  “Of course.” The old yokai gestured to the door of her hut. “Do you think the temple is the only place you can live? And that the monks’ way of life is the only one?” Her muzzle wrinkled. “There’s a whole huge world out there, cub. Full of wonder, riches, chaos and things you can’t even imagine. You’re wasting both your life and your talents, staying behind those temple walls, listening to humans drone on about morality. A kitsune is not meant to be caged. Don’t you want to get out there and see what you’re missing?”

  Something inside me stirred, the yearning, intrigue and curiosity for the world beyond the walls rising to the surface again. I did want to know what was out there. I wanted to see the places Master Isao spoke of—the sprawling cities and tangled wilderness not meant for human feet. I ached to visit Kin Heigen Toshi, the great golden capital, and travel to the top of Finger of God Mountain, the highest peak in Iwagoto, which was said to touch the sky. I wanted to see samurai and merchants, nobles and peasants, geisha and bandits, and farmers and fishermen. I wanted to see it all.

  And, in a tiny thought that I barely admitted even to myself, I was tired of always having my magic restricted. To practice fox magic only under supervision, or to be punished whenever I used it for pranks, jokes, or to get out of work. If I was truly free, there would be no limitations; I could use my kitsune powers however I wanted.

  But to do that, I would have to leave behind the monks, the temple and the only life I’d ever known. And while the order of the Silent Winds temple was small, confining and rigid, it was also safe. I was just one kitsune, not even a full-blooded yokai. I wasn’t quite ready to be that brave.

  “I can’t leave, Tanuki-baba,” I told the hunched figure across the table. “Where would I go? How would I live?”

  Tanuki-baba blinked. “What do you mean, how would you live?” she snapped. “You’re kitsune, girl! You’d go where you want. You live however you like.”

  “I’m only half kitsune,” I pointed out. “And I’ve been with the monks my whole life. I don’t know how to be a fox.”

  “Don’t know how to be a fox?” Tanuki-baba threw back her head and cackled. Flecks of spittle flew from her narrow jaws as she laughed, shaking her head. “Poor little kitsune,” she mocked. “You’ve lived with these humans for too long, letting their mortality infect you.” She chuckled, giving me a look of exasperation. “You are a fox. You don’t have to learn how to be kitsune. You just are.”

  “But—”

  “And don’t give me any excuses about your ‘human’ side.” Tanuki-baba curled a lip, showing sharp yellow teeth. “Even a drop of yokai blood is enough to suppress any hints of humanity, if you want it to. You just have to choose to be more kitsune than mortal.”

  Choose to be more kitsune? How did I do that? Was there a ritual for it? I thought back to what Denga-san had said this evening, about my yokai nature overshadowing my humanity. Was that what the monks were afraid of? Did they fear I would turn in
to a nogitsune, an evil wild fox that delighted in fear and chaos and preyed on humans whenever it could?

  I swallowed hard. “But what if I don’t want to be more kitsune?” I asked, making Tanuki-baba frown. “What if I’m happy as a human and a fox?”

  She sniffed. “Then you are a fool,” she stated bluntly. “And you are fighting a losing battle. It is very hard to be human, little fox. Even the humans themselves don’t do a great job of it. The mortal world is full of hatred, betrayal, sadness and death. Most yokai and kami alike find that it is too much for them. Everything the humans think they value—love, honor, empathy, compassion—we yokai need nothing of those, especially when they so often lead to suffering and despair. It is far easier to abandon everything that is human and just be kitsune. The world of spirits and yokai is far less complicated than the world of men.”

  “I don’t understand, Tanuki-baba.”

  “Of course not.” Tanuki-baba shook her shaggy head, but did not elaborate. “You are a cub, with no sense of the world. But you will learn. If you continue to try to balance your two natures, you will. And in time, when you finally experience what the human world is truly like, you will decide that being a fox is much less difficult than being human.” She glanced down at the table, nostrils twitching. “But now, our teacups are empty, and the fish is gone. That means it is time for bed.”

  I rose and bowed to the ancient tanuki. One did not question the habits or behaviors of yokai as old as she. “I should go home,” I said, taking a step back. “The monks will probably be waiting with a lecture. Thank you for the tea and the conversation, Tanuki-baba.”

  “Fox cub,” the old yokai called as I reached the door. I glanced back to see the squat, furry creature sitting in the squalor of her house, watching me with eyes that glowed yellow in the shadows. “You walk a thin line, little kitsune,” she said, and her voice was a warning, though I didn’t know from what. “The place between the spirit realm and the mortal realm is a difficult one, indeed. Remember, you can always give up your humanity if things become too hard. It is far easier for a kitsune, even a half kitsune, to abandon it than one who is fully mortal.”

  I still didn’t know what she meant by that, so I simply nodded and left, slipping into the dim quiet of the woods.

  Immediately, I knew something was wrong.

  In the time I had spent in Tanuki-baba’s home, night had fallen, and the forest had gone deathly still. Instead of birdsong or the rustle of small creatures scampering through the undergrowth, an ominous silence hung in the air. The forest kami had vanished like they’d never been, leaving empty, lifeless woods behind. And a new scent was creeping through the trees, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. The sharp, acrid scent of smoke.

  I sprinted through the forest, retracing my steps past the hollow, the stream and the bamboo grove, until I reached the pond. The green-and-silver wall opened up, showing the night sky with a faded crescent moon overhead and a smear of crimson sinking into the west.

  My heart twisted. A dark smudge was rising over the tree line, coiling and ominous, like a terrible black dragon. It snaked into the air, blotting out the stars, coming from the direction of...

  “Home.”

  5

  Demons in the Bamboo

  I was close.

  Even on horseback, it had taken me several days to reach Earth Clan territory and the Niwaki Mountains where the Silent Winds temple was said to be located. The tiny farming community in the valley below the forested peaks stared at me, wide-eyed, as I rode past terraced fields and thatched huts, following the path that snaked toward the mountains. A pair of small children trailed behind my horse, palpably curious and getting steadily closer, until they were snatched away by worried-looking adults. Traveling samurai were likely rare to this part of the valley, members of the Shadow Clan even more so, and farmers naturally gave the warrior class a wide berth. For this mission, I was dressed in the part of a Kage samurai, in hakama trousers and a black haori jacket, the crest of the Shadow Clan on my back. My shinobi gear was tucked into the saddlebags of my horse in case I needed it, though a shadow warrior never revealed himself to outsiders. If I was denied entry at the gates, I would slip over the walls and infiltrate the temple as silently as a yurei ghost, but for now, I was a samurai on a warrior’s pilgrimage, seeking wisdom at the shrines across Iwagoto.

  A thin farmer wearing a ragged tunic and a cloth tied around his forehead bowed low as I passed, dropping his gaze to the dirt. I pulled the horse to a stop and glanced down at him, or rather, at the top of his bald head.

  “Is the Silent Winds temple nearby?” I asked softly. The man didn’t look up, only bobbed once at the waist, his eyes on his sandaled feet as he replied.

  “H-hai, my lord! The temple is right up this path, at the top of the mountain.”

  “Thank you.”

  I gave the horse a nudge and continued on, leaving the farmers and the village behind. The path became a narrow, twisting trail that grew more treacherous the farther it wound through the forest. I surmised that the monks of this temple rarely received, or encouraged, visitors. Perhaps they simply wished to meditate and study in peace, far removed from the chaos of the world, or perhaps they were hiding—protecting—something.

  As night fell and the shadows grew long, the trail nearly vanished, melting into the brush and thick undergrowth, as if the forest itself took offense to intruders. But I had been trained to spot the hidden and the invisible, and darkness was no hindrance for me. I continued, passing bamboo groves and huge trees strung with sacred rope, signifying they were home to the kami.

  In my head, Hakaimono stirred. I pulled the horse to a stop and sat, motionless, trying to hear past the labored breaths of the animal beneath me. Around us, the woods were silent and still, evening shadows cloaking all but a few spots of mottled red sunlight.

  Very slightly, I opened myself up to the sword and felt the terror in the woods around me, the rapid heartbeats of many living things. Coming toward us? There was a rustle in the bushes ahead, and my horse froze, every muscle taut.

  With an eruption of leaves and vegetation, a herd of spotted deer leaped out of the trees and bounded toward me, causing my pulse to spike and my horse to rear up with a squeal. I kept my seat as the animal tried to bolt, squeezing with my knees and pulling back the reins, managing to bring it under control. It snorted and trembled, ears pinned to its skull, as the deer sprang past us and continued into the forest. Hakaimono flared, and I shoved the demon’s presence down, as well.

  As the horse calmed, I breathed cautiously and caught the hint of smoke on the wind. I gazed through the canopy overhead, saw a curl of blackness rising over the treetops and kicked the horse into motion. We sped down the trail, Hakaimono pulsing eagerly in my mind, knowing violence was not far away, and death would soon follow.

  The air grew hazy and sharp, smelling of burning timber, and my stomach clenched. Looking up, I saw a faint crimson glow against the sky. Small forest creatures, rabbits, squirrels and others, fled through the undergrowth, going in the opposite direction, and my horse began to balk, fighting my orders to continue. Grimly, I set my heels to its ribs and continued, knowing it wasn’t the fire that was spooking it. Something was here, in the forest. And whatever it was, I couldn’t allow it to hinder my mission. I had to get to the scroll.

  As we reached a narrow, half-eroded flight of steps through a bamboo forest, a kama sickle flew from the bushes, spinning end over end, and struck my mount in the neck. As the horse screamed and fell, crashing to the steps, I sprang from the saddle and rolled, feeling the jarring impact through my shoulder, then came to my feet several yards away.

  A flood of small grotesque creatures spilled from the bamboo forest, cackling and waving spears and crude blades. They swarmed the horse, leaping atop its back, shrieking and poking as it struggled to its feet. Panicked, the mortally wounded horse fled, buc
king wildly down the path with its demonic passengers clinging to the saddle, while the rest of the horde spun on me.

  Amanjaku? I felt a ripple of both shock and unease, even as Hakaimono flared excitedly at so many things to kill. I had dealt with them in the past, but never in these numbers. How were there so many?

  I drew Kamigoroshi as the demons shrieked, baring their fangs, and attacked. One sweep split the first wave in half, severing heads and torsos, and the amanjaku howled as they were sent back to Jigoku. Leaping forward, I dodged a spear thrust at me, stabbed a demon in the eye and beheaded another as I yanked the blade out. Then I was in their midst, and it was nothing but teeth and claws and flashing blades. I gave myself over to the dance of death, Hakaimono’s unrestrained glee surging through my veins.

  With alarmed shrieks and howls, the remaining amanjaku scattered into the bamboo forest, their small forms fading quickly from view. Panting, I lowered Kamigoroshi and looked around, wondering where they’d come from, who had brought them here. Amanjaku were minor demons of Jigoku; they couldn’t appear out of nowhere, but the blood magic needed to summon them was a dangerous power that was strictly forbidden throughout the empire. The key component to working the magic of Jigoku was, of course, blood. Sometimes it required other things: souls, organs, body parts, but mostly it called for the life force that ran through all mortal veins. The larger, more powerful the spell, the more blood was required to successfully cast it.

  But, the dangerous catch was, it didn’t have to come from the practitioner. Jigoku didn’t care whose blood was spilled, be it man, woman or child, as long as it was human, and as long as the price was paid. Although, as befitting the realm of evil and corruption, the more you cared for the person whose blood was being spilled, the more powerful the magic that came of it. A lover, brother or child whom you betrayed would bestow far more power than a nameless stranger. This was the reason the empire forbade blood magic, why practicing the dark arts was an immediate death sentence. Even a single amanjaku required a blood sacrifice to draw it into the mortal realm; I couldn’t imagine the amount an entire horde would call for.