“We cannot help that now.” He turned and towed me through the trees; I dragged my heels, twisted and pulled. I scratched at his hands, bit down upon his ankle and kicked him with all the strength I could muster.
Help me stop him Jiaonuo, please!
She didn’t answer, but Taro had words enough for them both.
“And what would happen if the prophecies of the Fortune marketplace no longer came true? Luck and love and secrets trampled underfoot, given no more heed than a lisping child telling lies?” He stopped long enough to shake me. “Is that what you want? To see everything that we have been, everything that we are crumble to dust?”
There it was: the strength to pull free from him. It blazed up inside me with all the fire of Jiaonuo’s lost nine-tails. “The bones of my bones are mine, to do with as I will!” I scrabbled at my chest with my fingernails. Jiaonuo howled in my head and tried to claw her way back to the innermost part of me, but I caught her between my fingertips and wrested her kitsune-soul from me. The bones scattered in semi-circle, but still I blazed. Every tendril of hair crackled, and my skin burned with fox-spirit magic.
I turned to Taro just as Death found him with His sword. “No!”
An arc of blood spattered my face and arm. Even the moon dripped with gore.
Mother stood behind me, whispering in my ear. “He will die, he will die a few hours hence in a pool of blood. A violent death. The death of a warrior.” Her bones rattled in my ears. “Cliff House will endure. The marketplace will continue. And life will go on, little Kasei.”
Taro fell to his knees; his smile was quiet and entirely for me.
“Yes, it will.” I turned to Mother. “But not for you. I have seen your Death.”
She paled and took a step back. “No! I won’t listen.”
“I do not need your ears to make you hear.” I pushed into her head. “The flesh falls from your bones, your eyes dim, and your lifespark sputters.”
With her screams, she tried to silence my voice out before I could say the words. But I tore the cane from her hand and broke it across my knee. “You have foretold your last fortune. I am fire to your wood.”
She shriveled under my gaze, under my hands. A silent scream poured from her mouth, but found no listening ear. I killed her then, burning her with all the magic left in me, and it was as I said it would be. All that remained—her ruby ring—landed on the pile of ash with a thump.
Jiaonuo’s bones skittered closer, whining with incoherent happiness. My tail!
“That’s just her ring.” I staggered to Taro’s body and pulled his head into my lap. His blood painted my fingernails again, but this time it was real.
“Stupid girl, that’s just what it looks like.” Jiaonuo scooped the ring up where her mouth should be. The fox-spirit gave a great heave, as if she’d swallowed the ocean. The ring collided with the star ball in the back of her throat-place, its silver light flickering, exploding outward, then settling in silver skin on the bone of my bones.
Then Fortune stared down Death. “You owe me a boon, for giving my tail to that harridan.”
“It was good for you.” Death sniffed at Fortune’s human form. “How else were you going to learn some humility?”
“Nevertheless, I would be a most grateful Spirit if you’d restore the boy.”
“And the girl?”
Fortune reached out, touched a finger to my forehead. “I claim her, as do you.” She slid the ruby ring over the middle finger of my right hand. “She is your Deathteller, and my Lifegiver.”
Death grumbled and took her by the elbow. “That’s too many titles for one so young and silly.”
Fortune laughed and kissed his hollow cheek. “Perhaps yes, perhaps no. That’s for her to decide. Now return the boy, and let’s get something hot to drink.”
They left on a southerly wind, and Taro opened his eyes. He touched a finger to my lips. “Your face looks as it should.”
“And you are almost more trouble than you are worth, Sato Taro.” I sniffed back my tears; Deathtellers don’t cry.
“Why did you bring me back then?”
My only answer was a kiss.
A Troll on a Mountain with a Girl
Steve Berman
Resolute, Owen cashed out his 401K—at a penalty—and set out on his world-spanning tour to be eaten by a monster. He packed two brand-new suitcases: one with comfortable clothes, the other with library books. His plan was to study the books on route and, at each destination, whether English countryside or Nerluc in Provence, to unpack a shirt, pair of slacks, and clean white boxers, and meet his fate looking fresh and neat.
But by the time he had reached F in his notebook—Fachen-Orkney Islands—undevoured, Owen had had to make some adjustments, such as washing clothes in hotel sinks with tiny bottles of complimentary shampoo. He could not bring himself to meet death appearing too disheveled.
He went from Europe to Africa, then back to New Jersey—he knew the rational thing would have been to search the Pine Barrens first, being they were an hour away when he began his tour, but the thought of breaking alphabetical order paralyzed him. Finding nothing lurking or skulking anywhere, he grew concerned.
Even Tokyo was turning out to be a disappointment The English language notebooks were rapturous about cherry blossoms and neon. None mentioned an ancient hag’s lair on Nabekura-yama. The small town of Tōnō was no better; no one knew her story. Didn’t local monsters deserve some press? Even Leicestershire’s tour books mentioned the threat of the Black Annis. Not that Owen had lucked upon her.
Waiting for breakfast, Owen paged through the yellowed book of folklore, the sole surviving text he had brought from New Jersey. The rest of Owen’s books had been abandoned in hotel rooms around the globe. He sometimes wondered if any of the maids had an interest in the echidna or the tarasque.
Owen always treated himself to a large breakfast before setting out for the hoped-for monster’s lair. Back when he worked as an accountant, he had allowed his workplace frugality to bleed over to his home life. Mornings were two cups of instant coffee with artificial sweetener and a piece of rye toast. Originally, he’d thought it an exercise in clever discipline to have a sandwich for lunch that began with the day’s letter: Monday was a melt sandwich, tuna, which he could have chosen for the next day but that was always toasted cheese (it was unfortunate that no weekday began with G or C). Wednesday was a wrapped leftover in pita; Thursday more toasted; and Friday he was free to lunch out as long as he did not spend more than 7.00 pre-tax and –tip.
But now, Owen saw no reason not to spoil himself. Every meal might be his last. So he indulged in local dishes, ate things like beans and black pudding or prima colazione.
The Tōnō hotel’s restaurant was quiet, the waitresses busying themselves folding napkins. Owen sat waiting for plates of grilled fish, rolled omelet, and pickles, with rice, of course. He sipped hot tea, unsweetened; he did not know how to ask for sugar in Japanese and there was none on the table.
“Excuse me, but are you American?”
Owen looked up. The man standing by his table’s empty chair looked to be in his late twenties but a good shave and haircut might have lost him a few years. He wore an open, wrinkled button-down shirt, the pale t-shirt beneath even more creased. The knees of his jeans were threadbare.
Owen nodded. “Though some would say New Jersey doesn’t deserve to be a state.” The joke was more for his own benefit. He was uncomfortable with the unexpected.
The guy smiled and unslung an immense backpack he had been carrying. “Great. Would you mind if I joined you? I’ve missed English.”
Owen sat up straighter and lifted a hand towards the empty seat.
“I’m Saul.”
“Vacationing student?”
Saul laughed. Owen noticed very large teeth, the bottom set chipped and askew. “Half right. I’ll be a teacher, or will be next week in Moriokashi. Thought I’d do a bit of roughing it before I start.”
A silent wa
itress brought over Owen’s food and took Saul’s order with a nod.
“Have you been to Mt. Nabekura yet?” Owen hesitated to take his chopsticks to the meal. Which to eat first? He couldn’t discern what sort of fish it was, so that left it to F. Omelettes should be eaten next, but they were mostly eggs, so that took precedence. But then pickles were really cucumbers….
“I may go tomorrow. I just want a couple nights indoors on a soft bed.”
During the past month, Owen had kept his quest secret. But now, almost at the end, he needed to tell someone, if only to reinforce his hope that today would be his last. So he leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve been hunting monsters.”
___
Owen was reasonable. He blamed his mother for only half his fascination with men and monsters. As a child, he spent every weekend with her on the plastic-sleeved sofa in the den. They would each take handfuls of salty popcorn from a big metallic mixing bowl and watch whatever old horror movie was on the UHF station. His father had spent every weekend at the shore, working on his boat, no matter what the season. By the time Owen was old enough to cook the popcorn on the stove by himself, he realized why men name their boats fancy lady names.
They shared a game while they watched. Now and then, his mother would cup her hands over his eyes to block the view of the television set. Never at the scariest moment, usually while something dull was happening. She would gasp loudly, as if the most horrible thing had happened, though, and Owen would laugh.
He stayed up late on weekends because as soon as he went to bed she would start crying. And as he grew older, he began to wonder if his mother hated men. He never mentioned how handsome he thought Colin Clive was, or his troubling daydreams sparked by a sweaty Oliver Reed in Curse of the Werewolf. He watched how she half-smiled when the monsters caught the pretty girls.
As an adult, it seemed easier simply not to even attempt dating. He told himself it would only end in disaster. He didn’t know the rules of the game, what even to say. He watched one of his co-workers sit on the edge of the receptionist’s desk and felt more bewilderment than envy. He avoided all offers to get a drink after work and never attended the annual holiday party.
Spreadsheets gave the day structure. Being an accountant, a proper upstanding one, meant no cheating, no lies. Dinners with his mother helped with the nights, fending off loneliness. At first, after he’d earned his CPA and moved into a nearby efficiency apartment, Owen walked home every Monday and Friday night. Then, after his parents’ divorce became final, he added Wednesdays. She never understood how to work the VCR he bought her. When she began forgetting things, such as paying bills or leaving on the oven, he did not hesitate to move back in with her. His old room felt small, but he wore it more like armor than a straightjacket.
Her last year, before the pneumonia took her, was spent at a nursing home. He came over every night after work to eat dinner with her. No sofa, just a mattress surrounded by stainless-steel safety bars. Like a crib for an adult. Her skin had faded to parchment and her fingers were all knuckles clenched around a cotton blanket.
“I want to go home,” she would say. But the childhood home she wanted was a small house bulldozed decades ago in upstate New York. He would help feed her while the videotape played Bela Lugosi. “The Count,” she murmured around a spoonful of soup that lacked any odor.
“I never drink…” he’d say. His mother answered “Wine,” with more strength than she mustered for anything else. He’d kiss her cheek. “I’m gay, Mom,” he’d say next. Or “I’m like a three-dollar bill” or once “I could marry in Massachusetts now.” It should have been a relief to tell her, but she never reacted, never seemed to remember, and so it was simply one more standard action of his nightly visits like kissing the top of her head, which seemed to have a cradle cap where the hair thinned.
After the funeral, the house seemed far too still. He read about something called Gay Bingo. He knew the rules to bingo. But he never made it to the bar hosting the event. Along the way, he passed a pair of young men walking hand-in-hand. They reminded him of the boys in contemporary horror films, always more gorgeous than the damsels in distress. They looked like dolls.
The left doll stopped and sneered at him, lifting up the right’s hand, fingers still interlocked, and kissed the back. The right doll snickered and Owen blushed.
“Bet this guy would like a show. He’s practically drooling.”
“Oh, sorry—” Owen began.
“Ugh, why do they let the trolls loose at night?” The left doll rolled his eyes and tugged the other down the street.
Owen’s face burned. Wanting nothing more than to be out of sight and back at home, he looked around for a cab. Trolls were monsters that lived under bridges and had a liking for mutton. Trolls couldn’t be accountants, couldn’t work the number pad of the keyboard with their jagged claws.
Cars passed him by and he headed back to the corner with the subway station. He glanced back over his shoulder now and then. The steps to the station, dingy and wet and reeking of fresh urine, both promised retreat and reminded him that underground was where the trolls hid away from the rest of the world.
He felt guilty for calling in sick the following Monday but he could not bring himself to leave bed except to make his melted sandwich. When he took a bite, the tuna was sour on his tongue.
On his fortieth birthday Owen decided to end his life. His cousins had thrown him a party. He did not recognize most of the faces and the fact that so many strangers wanted to hug him or kiss him or slap his back left him shaking, and too nauseated to do more than pick at his ice cream cake, with its troubling layers of vanilla then chocolate and minty crème, utterly out of proper order.
Owen left their large condo clutching an armful of cards with gift certificates to stores he had never heard of. The moment he’d blown out the garish pink and white wax 4 and 0 candles, Owen knew the future. A life spent alone in his mother’s house, a silent phone, a twin bed in which he’d die and not be found for days.
He stopped at the first sewer grate he came to and dropped the cards through the slots into darkness. They made a soft splash into whatever water flowed beneath. The sound, the image, reminded him of stories his mother would tease him with whenever they passed by a sewer. Gigantic albino alligators. She’d also told him that water towers imprisoned immense squid.
He wished one of those alligators—aligrators he had called them as a child—would burst through a manhole and crunch his old bones. There was never a monster around when you wanted. The thought stayed with him.
He didn’t walk back to his apartment. Instead, he wandered until he came upon the old public library he’d visited in grade school. He missed the card catalog. He asked the librarian for help finding monsters. The books she found him reminded Owen of his mother’s sofa, with their plastic dust jackets. But they were filled with photos of Frankenstein’s Monster or Jack Pierce’s other masterpieces. Creatures of greasepaint and celluloid. He needed real fangs.
Working the computer terminal, he found his quarry in 398. Folklore. He pulled out his pocket notebook in which he kept track of his daily, weekly, and monthly expenses, and tore off the first few pages. He wrote down the names and locales of the most promising creatures. Exotic names like chupacabra and jentilak filled him with excitement. He renewed his membership and checked out a stack of books.
The next day, bleary-eyed from too little sleep after a night of feverish reading, Owen went to work to type out his resignation. He sent it in via email after making the travel arrangements.
___
“Monsters?”
Owen nodded and tapped the book by his plate. “Old stories tell that a hag lives in a cave on the mountain. She has two mouths,” he said and clicked his own jaws. “The second is hidden in her hair. She lures lost travelers and devours them.”
Saul chuckled. “I would have guessed you were a businessman. Not a Van Helsing.”
That distracted Owen for a moment; h
e would have liked to have been a Cushing Van Helsing more than a Van Sloan Van Helsing but doubted he had either’s character.
“So what monsters have you slain?”
“None. I’ve searched everywhere. England. Scotland and Russia—”
“Where in Russia? I spent six months all over Perm Krai. I camped in the Urals.”
Owen had never known anyone who had lived out of a tent for six days let alone months. Such a life, unfettered with a numerical address or zip code, seemed terrifying.
“You’re really a professor, right? Studying folklore? I heard this part of Japan has some interesting history.”
“I look like a professor?” Owen looked down at himself. His sports coat had seen better days. He imagined tweed patched at the elbows and smiled.
Saul shrugged. He stuffed rice into his mouth. Owen watched his Adam’s apple bob with each swallow. Saul had a scrawny neck and several dark hairs peeked out of the collar of his t-shirt. Owen wondered how they would feel. Wiry or soft?
“I taught statistics at Princeton.” Owen amazed himself with the lie.
Saul devoured his slices of pickle and Owen offered him the remaining pieces from his own plate. “And you’re here because of this—”
“The Yama-uba.”
Saul laughed. “I think that’s what Japanese kids call grunge chic.”
“The stories don’t say what she wears.” Owen looked at the faded cloth cover of the book.
“So you believe she exists?”
“The law of averages. I’ve looked for monsters everywhere. One of them has to be real.”
Saul reached over the table and took hold of Owen’s jacket lapel. He lifted it aside. “Are you packing silver bullets?”
Owen tried to hide his blush with an extra long sip of tea.
“Well, good luck with your hunt.” Saul wiped his mouth then left a rumpled napkin in the center of his plate. “Maybe I’ll see you later. If you need an assistant who knows almost nothing about the countryside.”
Japanese Dreams Page 13