by Rin Chupeco
One negligent toss of Yukiko’s hand, and we’re treated to the sight of the man’s head bouncing across the ground before the head and his prone body vanish into smoke, swallowed by the darkness. I remember Hotoke mentioning in her diary that Yukiko had the ability to become a powerful priestess in her own right, which is proving to be correct.
The kannushi disappears in the ruckus, but I don’t have time to see if it’s because Yukiko has finished him off. I flip the switch on my recorder, and the sounds of Buddhist chants fill the cave, bouncing from wall to wall in melancholic resonance. Yukiko beheads the second assistant and turns toward me, her teeth gnashing. She lunges, and I swing the hanayome ningyō like a baseball bat, braining her—but the momentum carries the ghost forward, and I wind up underneath her, treated to a close-up of her rotting, grinning face.
She hesitates, her fingers hovering inches above my face. I feel a surge of heat on my chest. The magatama is throbbing like it has its own heartbeat. The ghost stiffens. She attempts to rake her nails down the front of my shirt but is stopped by a barrier I can’t see.
Then Okiku barrels into her, slashing and scratching. She tears into Yukiko with her own brand of savagery, slicing at the bride ghost’s flesh. Yukiko hisses and delivers a few blows of her own, sending Okiku’s head snapping back. I sense her initial advantage is waning. Earth trumps water, and here, deep underground, Yukiko has strength in reserve.
Yukiko is distracted when Kagura appears. The miko’s aim is true, and she drives a sharpened spike through one of the bride ghost’s hands. Without pause, Yukiko throws off Okiku and turns to swipe at Kagura, who dances back just in time. Riley tries to get in on the fight too, though he’s having no luck getting close enough to score a hit.
Even pinned to the floor, Yukiko drags herself across the ground. The embedded stake actually drags through the rock, creating small cracks in the otherwise solid ground. Her other hand blurs through the air, and Kagura winces when it catches her unaware. Deep cuts appear on the front of the miko’s already ruined haori.
I lash out with my own weapon, trying to restrain the revenant, and manage to drill through her foot. Yukiko stumbles, but persists. She lunges at me, and I recoil, biting back a cry of pain as her nails scour at my face. If I’d been half a second slower, she would have sliced through my neck instead.
Okiku isn’t out of the fight yet; she tackles the other ghost again. Yukiko swipes, and Okiku lets her. Those knife-like fingers sink into the center of Okiku’s chest.
A red mist settles in my vision, and I’m aware that I’m shouting at the ghost, but I don’t know the words I’m saying, just that they are filled with anger. I dimly recall ignoring Kagura’s own yells as I leap at Yukiko. By the time I come back to myself, Yukiko is on the ground, froth dripping from her bared teeth. A wooden stake sprouts from the center of her forehead and black is oozing out of that terrible wound. Her hand has been ripped from her wrist. Okiku must have done that.
Okiku is in my arms, bleeding black from the wounds she’s sustained. I press my hands to her chest, trying to stem the flow. I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel the tears dripping down my chin.
Yukiko screams horrible curses at us. She tries to lift her head, the stake pulling a few centimeters from the ground.
And then it’s Riley’s turn. Before the ghost can dislodge the spike, he sends his own into her chest. The horrid, gurgled screech she emits will always haunt my nightmares. Still holding Okiku, I lift the doll. It’s now or never.
“Rest in goddamn peace already!” I snarl. It’s not the invocation Kagura would have chosen, but it does the trick. The stakes pinning Yukiko Uchiyama begin to move again but this time not of her volition. They pull her toward the doll I’m aiming in her direction. Yukiko’s struggles are frantic. Her severed hand clings to the floor, creating deep grooves along the rocky surface as it is yanked along with its owner. The ghost wails one last time—
“Please, no more,” she begs.
Makoto’s face is a grotesque puzzle, his features nearly unrecognizable. He hangs suspended over the pit. The ropes holding him twist as he writhes in pain. He has been stripped naked, and the priests have carved symbols into his skin that can never be washed away. His blood runs down his body and gathers at the tips of his toes, creating a steady drip, drip, drip as it is cast into the darkness beneath him.
Makoto is still alive. She wishes he was not.
“Please, no more,” she sobs.
“You are the strongest of them so far, Yukiko-chan,” the kannushi says.
Yukiko hangs from the silkworm tree, the long strips of cloth already binding her up to her waist, but he forces her to face the suffering boy before her.
“You are the strongest, Yukiko-chan, and it is you who must suffer the most—”
The doll shudders in my hand, and I drop it, unable to hold it any longer. It hits the floor and flops onto its back before finally stilling, baleful eyes staring upward. Riley stabs at it again, completing the exorcism.
“The dolls,” Kagura says in between gasps. Yukiko’s ghost is stronger than the others, and it’s possible that even these dolls can’t hold her for too long.
Riley understands. With shaking hands, he takes it, runs to the ring of dolls, and places Yukiko’s vessel among them, completing the circle.
“You little idiot,” I choke, cradling Okiku in my arms.
She smiles up at me, the expression strange on her face.
“No protests this time,” I tell her. “None of that ‘it is of no consequence’ crap. You’re going to rest.” The flow of blood isn’t as heavy as it was minutes before, and I know Okiku heals fast. I blink back my tears. “You’re going to rest, then we’re going to finish the ritual, and then I expect to see neither hide nor hair from you until we’re out of this damned village.”
“You are angry at me.”
“Damn right I’m angry at you. But we can talk more about that later, when you don’t have that hole in your chest.” I bend and brush my lips against her clammy forehead, ignoring the weird looks Riley keeps shooting at me. From his viewpoint, I must look to be cradling air. “Now get on with it, and I’ll go check on Kagura.”
Okiku makes a soft sigh in acquiescence, and I feel her start to slip—
—and when it is over, she finds herself crying.
She flees from the body, the cursed, bloated corpse of the man she has killed. She should feel triumph for killing him, should feel vindicated by his death, but all that remains is the strange emptiness she abhors. The voices that fill her head with their enticing promises of vengeance have been silenced, and for the first time, she knows she is truly alone.
Nearly blind, she claws at the walls. Parts of them crumble away from the strength she now possesses. She wants to leave Himeji Castle, this smell of live flesh and human hearts. This is no longer her home. This is no longer a place for the dead like her.
She sees the lord of the castle before he sees her. He is clothed in his evening robes, a candle held aloft to investigate the curious noises. His eyes meet hers. Then he recoils as shock and fear stamp themselves across his features. His voice is no longer swift and sure; now it quavers.
“Okiku?”
She should slay him as well. He gave the order. He turned her away, for all her useless pleading…but he falls to his knees with a low cry when she approaches, and he begins to weep. She has never seen the lord of Himeji Castle vulnerable before.
“Forgive me,” he sobs. “Forgive me!”
She cannot.
She turns from him and wills the shadows to swallow her up, to take all the memories of her past life here. Instead, when her eyes open again, she is standing outside Himeji, with nothing but the stars above to bear witness to her sorrow. She feels warmth in her hands and opens them to see the small soul she saved when she killed the murderer, which floats up to graze her bowed head and then flies into the dark sky to mingle with the night.
Take me with you, she say
s. Do not leave me here with nothing.
But the heavens do not answer.
On her knees, she begins to weep—
“—there is something wrong,” Kagura is saying.
“What?” I switched off the recorder after Yukiko was exorcised, but the chants continue. It’s not the harmonizing of Buddhist monks but one lone voice speaking in a language I have trouble recognizing. I feel sluggish, and I don’t understand the urgency in Kagura’s voice until it’s too late.
Sudden, agonizing pain tears through my head. It’s the last thing I remember before the blackness consumes me.
Chapter Eighteen
The Eighth Ritual
You do not belong here.
My head feels unnaturally thick, like someone packed a planeload of cotton wads into a thimble-sized cranium. There is granite on my tongue, and the taste is disgustedly informing my brain that I’m facedown on the ground again. I turn my head to the side and try to spit, but my mouth refuses to work. My sense of hearing is the next to return.
You are too weak to face me.
It’s a man’s voice, but it isn’t Riley’s. I open my eyes and wait for everything to stop swimming around. I’m still inside the cave and can see the silkworm tree and its cocooned inhabitants, swaying in some unknown wind. A gasp escapes me when I spot Okiku facing the kannushi. She hasn’t had time to heal. Her body is bent over like she can’t even carry her own weight. The ground around her is dark with her blood, as black continues to spill from her wounds.
Kagura and Riley are sprawled on the ground nearby. Whatever hit me got them as well. Riley is unconscious, but Kagura’s awake, though in no shape to move.
The kannushi is smiling at Okiku like he’s already won. I try to lift myself off the ground, but I can’t move either. There is only the boy, the kannushi says through his mask, and Okiku is listening.
“Don’t” is what I want to say, but it comes out as a gurgle. The only way to close the hell’s gate is to perform the seventh ritual. Six have successfully taken place. And Okiku knows it.
Nothing about the ritual says that you can’t use a ghost for a sacrifice if she meets all other requirements.
You have only the boy. Without him, what do you have left?
Okiku turns to me. Her face softens until the beautiful girl she is looks back at me. Her smile is sad and ripe with yearning.
“Nothing,” she whispers,
“Without him, I am
nothing.
Do not take him away.”
“Kiiii,” I gasp. Something feels warm against my chest. The magatama.
I can free you. I will spare him.
He’s lying. He’s going to bind her soul to the ritual, not set it free. I know it, Okiku knows it—but she doesn’t have a choice, or else he’ll kill me immediately. That’s why she’s going to accept.
This wasn’t part of the plan. Hotoke should have been the seventh sacrifice. It all should have ended with her. Okiku wasn’t supposed to be a sacrifice. But she’s going to accept, because she trusts me—even at the cost of her own life.
I risk all for him.
I need to move. Now.
“Kiii.” The magatama grows hotter. Heat curls down my back, toward my arms and legs. It concentrates there, and almost instantly, I feel my limbs thaw. The sensation of pins and needles prickles my skin as I begin taking back control of my body. But there’s something else—I feel the stirrings of a strange presence inside me. I have experienced this countless times with Okiku, but this is different.
Okiku steps underneath the silkworm tree, and a swath of cloth gathers around her. I’m still too weak to do anything other than watch as the silk binds her hands, wrapping swiftly around her legs and waist, climbing up into her chest. The magatama brands my flesh.
“Okiku!”
She smiles at me one last time, and then she disappears amid the swirl of cloth, binding her form forever.
The kannushi is chanting, but the sound is lost in my screaming. She knew. There are two more rituals that can be performed—one to control the gate and one more to rule it. The sacrifices must be willing. To save my life, Okiku gave hers.
While droning on, the kannushi turns to me and picks up the ceremonial knife I brought. He’ll kill me anyway—if not only to increase her suffering but because he can.
And then two hands rise up from my back and something forces itself from my body. Hotoke Oimikado emerges like a contortionist crawling out of a box, her face and throat still horribly mutilated, leering at her father’s apparition through sunken eyes.
The kannushi’s chanting breaks off. He had not expected his daughter’s ghost to use me as a hiding place. Dumbelina, you’re it.
But I wouldn’t care if Satan himself spawned out of my back. My eyes are locked on the seventh silkworm cocoon. I frantically search with my mind for a sign that Okiku’s presence is still there—and find nothing. I reach out, frantic, and encounter emptiness. In that moment, I find the strength to move.
The recorder must have fallen when I did. It’s lying a few meters away. I hit the play button, and monks’ chanting fills the air. When a faint metallic clatter sounds to my right, I crawl toward the noise as soon as I’m able to. Kagura’s still immobile, watching through frightened eyes.
I close the distance between me and the ritual dagger and stagger to my feet. I understand now why the knife was in the other cave instead of in the kannushi’s possession. When his daughter’s ritual failed and the malice overwhelmed him, the kannushi became a creature of wood, just like the hell’s gate, this silkworm tree he worships. So he has become susceptible to sacred metal, even his own.
Kazuhiko, Kagura’s father, must have known this and used the dagger to fight him, but he was too old or too weak to succeed. As if I could access Hotoke’s memories, I can almost see the kannushi fleeing the cavern in my mind’s eye, weak from the knife’s use and leaving the vile dagger behind just as the ghost bride arrived, too late to save her beloved.
Hotoke isn’t as strong as Yukiko was, and the kannushi deflects most of her blows. But his mask has been ripped off, and his eyes are wild with the power so close to his grasp. I still feel a touch of Hotoke’s presence within my head, and while her thoughts are nothing more than a jumble of emotions—fear, anger, rage, a tinge of madness at being dead—I sense that her father always under-estimated her, even in life. He thinks he’s winning; without Okiku in the fight, it feels like he will.
That doesn’t stop me from plunging the dagger through his back, sliding it into what little heart he has left.
This time, the gurgling comes from the kannushi’s throat, and I withdraw and stab, withdraw and stab, withdraw and stab. He doesn’t bleed, but the knife cripples him and causes him to stagger.
I want to see him suffer. I want to see him fall, to bring him to his knees using the very weapon he used to cause so many girls such grief and torment.
My final blow skewers him by the throat. I should be nauseated by that, but I’m not. The anger and sorrow of losing Okiku are still too much. I switch on the recorder and press my hands over his face.
“Tarquin-san!” Kagura screams at me, but I don’t listen. I’m breathing hard, sweat dripping out of every pore. I can feel the priest struggling. His nails are doing a number on my hands, and he bites at my palms, but I barely feel the pain anymore.
I’m a moving, living, breathing doll—maybe not of the same aesthetic as the hanayome ningyō, but close enough. Kagura explained that enough times. All one needs is a vessel to contain malevolent spirits—ningyō dolls, Kewpies.
Or me.
I’ve been a vessel since I was five years old.
It’s hard to explain what it feels like to have a hostile ghost bottled up inside you—it’s worse than my experiences with the masked woman in black of my youth. I had tattoos stitched into my skin to keep her from breaking free. With the kannushi, and without the inked seals to lock him in, it’s a wrestling match to stop him from using me
as his own—a hand here, an eye there—when my defenses are down. He sends nightmares into my head, trying to frighten me, but I shield my mind and heart with memories of Okiku.
I don’t need to hold the kannushi long, just long enough to finish what he’s started—but on my own terms. I turn the tables on him. Now I force myself into his head and access his knowledge.
I tap into his mind, into everything I’ll need to know to rule the gate and wrest the control away from him.
Seven to close and eight to rule.
I drag myself to the altar. Hotoke floats toward the silkworm tree, her arms outstretched. The silkworm cloth finds her easily, wrapping almost lovingly around her spread limbs. She’s willing too.
The obscure mantras I need come easily to my lips, but they’re not in my voice. I hold the ceremonial knife to my arm, pressing the blade against me. The kannushi’s presence leaps away from its touch, stilling him long enough for me to reap the words from his mind. The hymns dip and flow, bending the air around me, and for the first time, I welcome it.
The priest screams inside my head. The cloth wraps around Hotoke Oimikado one final time, and she disappears into the flowing silk.
A terrible noise whips through the air, like the crack of thunder. My breathing quickens, my lips moving faster as the chants quicken, and I watch the silkworm tree slowly split open, and its malice, a black shapeless form, begins to wriggle through the gradually widening entrance. I feel its heavy touch against my mind, its presence so overpowering that my first impulse is to get away from it.
I take a deep breath and embrace the darkness.
There is
nothing
here
Just the scrolling endless
dark of for
ever
So