Swords v. Cthulhu

by Jesse Bullington

  “Sounds like you’re not going through with it. Shame. What kind of sick mind dreamed up seppuku, anyway? Maximum pain, gutting yourself like a fish. This is honor?” Amusement.

  “Answer me,” Inochinomi demanded.

  “Careful now, I’m handing you your naginata. They’ll be here in moments. Down the path. Can’t you smell them?”

  The handle tapped Inochinomi’s left shoulder. She gripped it. Relaxed into the familiar heft and texture. A lifeline for a drowning warrior. She had to trust this stranger. At least for now.

  “Ready yourself,” said the girl. “I’ll help you see.”

  Inochinomi hesitated.

  Then waves of stench assaulted her senses, punching through the rain. Excrement, bile, and rancid meat. The reek sparked memories. Her brothers and cousins speared, dying. Her family’s retainers screaming. Her father’s hasty preparations to gut himself, calling her to his side. Handing her his katana.

  The stink of hell. Of her family’s demonic assassins. And through the rain, the sounds of bestial sniffing, of claws on slick grit. Inochinomi assumed battle stance. Gripped her naginata with both hands. Faced the darkness.

  “Shut your eyes,” the strange girl shouted. A clack, the smell of burning sulfur, a flare of sparks. Inochinomi caught a flash of a girl clad in white, like a ghost, before she shut her eyes tight.

  Several explosions followed. The pops deafened Inochinomi, the flashes painfully bright even through her eyelids. She swept her gaze from pitch-blackness to a geyser of green sparks. In the distance, a beast fled, panicked, its impossibly tall rider bouncing wildly. In the mud, another horse-beast screamed and writhed, something burning, sizzling in its guts. This horse had slime-skin and the teeth and claws of a tiger. Its masked rider scrambled up on strangely jointed legs. One of its long, ape-like arms reached for its waist, and Inochinomi heard the metallic rattle of chains.

  The devils stank like a battlefield in the sun.

  Inochinomi tried not to gag. Ignored the taiko pounding of her heart. She wanted to rage. These assassins had destroyed everything she loved. She controlled herself. Buried memory. Forced out even her desire to live. There was only her opponent, this battle, this moment. Her naginata was a part of her, the pole a part of her arms, the blade her claws. She advanced.

  When the demon whipped his weighted chain to catch her pole sword, she was ready. Feinted, flicked her weapon out of the way. Followed with a rapid swipe to the creature’s chest. It staggered back, then fell. She skewered the hellish being, leaning into the weapon to finish it off.

  She nearly let go when serpentine things burst through the chest and waist of its black garb. Eel-like appendages grabbed desperately at the pole arm. She chopped the body until the writhing tentacles quieted. As they stilled, the round-toothed lamprey mouths at their ends rasped one word in unison:

  “Oneechan.” Big sister.

  As the eerie green flare sputtered out, the bodies of both demonic rider and steed dissolved into gelatinous masses, sticky with mucus. Inochinomi’s vomit mixed with the foul remains as the rain fought to wash both away.

  The strange girl produced a pitch torch from a waterproof woven basket she wore strapped to her back. It struggled against the rain and dark to cast a feeble flicker.

  “The devil that escaped will be back,” Inochinomi said as she gathered her weapons. “With others.”

  “I heard the chain,” the girl said. “It wanted you alive.” She sounded intrigued.

  Now that Inochinomi had light within reach, she wanted to take it and run. She took a deep breath. “I’m in your debt.”

  “Call me Mizuko,” the girl said, lighthearted. Unfazed by the attack. And the stench.

  “Mizuko,” said Inochinomi. Water-girl. “Strange name for one carrying so much fire.”

  “The people of Dan no Uchi used to produce most of the fireworks in this region,” said Mizuko. “People buy the ones from the capital now, but the villagers keep making them.”

  Inochinomi took the offered torch.

  Mizuko was a young woman, about Inochinomi’s age. She wore the white tunic and trousers of a yamabushi, a mountain ascetic, as well as the tooth and claw, bone and beak rosary of the itako, a blind medium. Mizuko poked at their attacker’s melting corpse with a thin staff. She squatted. Scooped mucus into a small lacquer box. Wiped her hands in the mud, then stood.

  Inochinomi shuddered, but guided the medium’s hand to her shoulder. Mizuko thanked her.

  They plodded up the slope toward the ancient monastery of Dan no Uchi, and the village that spilled around it and over the edges of the tableland. Mizuko spoke in whispers. Dan no Uchi, Within the Altar or Platform, got its name from the mountain’s abrupt, wide summit. It was as though some old god had beheaded the mountain, perhaps to create a giant table for feasting. Or an altar for sacrifice.

  Inochinomi peered into the darkness for her pursuers. The torchlight transformed the forest, so that they were surrounded by clutching, wavering, limbed shadows. Mizuko looked more ghostly than human. Black hair unbound, wild and free. Pale skin, almost glowing against the night. White robe, plastered against her slim chest. Feet hidden.

  The forest appeared to be slowly devouring the village. They first encountered the skeletal remains of huts, then homes consumed from within by weeds and from without by close-growing branches. Vines smothered even a crossroads statue of the Bodhisattva Jizo.

  The monastery itself was lit, a fortress against the night.

  Mizuko halted her careful shuffle. “I’m not welcome here,” she said.

  “I’ll tell him you saved my life,” Inochinomi protested. “How will you get home?”

  “Dan no Uchi is my home,” Mizuko said. “I’ll be fine. But you, samurai, you’ll be in danger at the monastery. Please, come with me!”

  “I’m sorry,” Inochinomi said. She wanted to follow. She could not. Instead she brought Mizuko’s fingers up to touch her face. They stayed that way for a long moment.

  Mizuko slowly brought her hand away. She followed the tip of her staff into the night.

  Big monks guarded the high, backlit gate. She noted two archers, arrows nocked. Nerves on edge. The gate opened. She entered the brightly lit courtyard, squinted. Nearly two dozen lanterns burned.

  The worship hall stood open. The man-sized statue, washed with gold, shone serenely, brilliantly. For all of Dan no Uchi’s remoteness, this hollow lacquered Buddha was famous. Holy. Namu Amida Butsu. Hope returned. Hell could be stopped here. A middle-aged man stepped into her line of sight.

  “Uncle,” she nearly shouted, but checked herself. Then, “Abbot Uesugi.” She bowed low.

  “Inochan,” he stepped forward. Navigating around her weapons, he embraced her mud-splattered body. She must reek of travel and fear and battle with the unholy. He looked sad.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Sorry?” How could he know?

  “Your father is dead. Why else would you be here, alone?” His shoulders slumped. “And I fear that soon we will all be dead.”

  “Uncle, what do you mean? You have the best fighting monks in the domain. And you have him,” she said, motioning toward the central altar. Wind buffeted the twin pillars of incense smoke.

  They stood, gazing at the shining Buddha. The old abbot finally spoke.

  “Even the Bodhisattvas and ancient kami cannot stand against old gods who were here before them, and who will be here when they have rotted, and the memories of their memories have evaporated.”

  She stared at him, felt hope bleed out.

  Seeing her expression, he sighed. “But I’m not powerless against such. Old knowledge runs in our family. Your father knew that when he married my sister.”

  He refused to elaborate, but called for an initiate to lead her to the guest chamber.

  The rain stopped the next day. Inochinomi told her uncle and his assistants what she could of the ambush on her father’s garrison, and her narrow escape. She did not speak of her
father’s hara-kiri.

  No one exhibited the calm she expected of holy men. Agitated monks hurried around Inochinomi, preparing for attack. She knelt in the great hall before the statue of Amida Buddha. She tried meditating, but her skin prickled. The cold dry air choked, oppressed. Even Amida seemed to peek nervously between his eyelids, the stains in the wood like streaks of sweat and tears.

  When night finally came, the courtyard was again bright with lantern light, and the walls and gates had been reinforced. Twenty-seven seasoned sohei, warrior monks, paced about in breast armor, naginata and iron clubs at the ready. Seven more stood on the walls, nervously plucking at their bowstrings. Others knelt in yellow robes, grinding rosaries between their palms, chanting sutras.

  She cornered her uncle. “Where would you like me? I’m the equal of any man here.”

  He gestured to a far corner of the monastery. “There are two secret exits there,” he said. He cut off her protest with a gesture and continued angrily. “I’m risking the lives of my followers to protect you. You will do as I say.” His face filled with sadness, affection. “My sister’s daughter. Find the itako. I don’t like her, but if we fail, she may be your only hope. I fear weapons won’t stop this foe, Inochan.”

  Inochinomi woke to a tremendous crash. From her hiding place near the escape route, she could see that the gate and the surrounding wall had exploded into splinters. Screams and snarls filled her ears. Death marched ahead of a group of masked devils. Lanterns burst before their advance, warrior monks hurled this way and that by some invisible force. Cold fear poured into Inochinomi’s heart.

  The courtyard became a scene from a hell scroll. Burning wood. Cooking flesh. That hatefully familiar stench of rotting corpses. The terrified cries of dying men. Desperate shouted orders. Beastly growls and whimpers. Tentacles and ape-like arms grappling with iron staffs. Strangest of all, the path of destruction leading to the main worship hall, as if an elephant from distant India trampled friend and foe alike.

  The line of chanting monks fell to that unseen force. Their bodies were thrown or smashed, blood spreading into yellow robes. Her uncle stood alone in front of Amida. He trembled, but recited words of power. Then he pointed and shouted a mystical command. The air shimmered in front of him…

  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 po
ts 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.

  From a wide gap in the center of the courtyard came the lowest voice. The wood vibrated, as if the building trembled to hear it.

  Mizuko had been her last hope.

  “She betrayed me,” she said. Surprised.

  “Poor blind girl had no choice,” a woman spoke from behind her. Cheerful. “I killed a family each hour until she delivered you.”