The Suffering

by Rin Chupeco

  “I knew you would. But we’ve talked it over, and I think we’ve both accepted that this is just for now.” I pause. “And as much as I think she’s great, I sometimes feel like I’m only using her as a substitute. Like I’m using her to forget.”

  “About Okiku?”

  “Yeah. It isn’t fair to her.”

  Callie inhales deeply, the way she does when she’s going to ask something she’s afraid might anger me. “Are you okay? Is…is it still with you?”

  I don’t really know what to call what’s housed inside my body, but the inflection in Callie’s voice seems to sum it up perfectly. “I’m fine. I’m used to being occupied by incorporeal spirits, remember? At least this one doesn’t talk back to me.”

  “Are you still going through with the ritual?” Callie sounds genuinely frightened. “I’m not going to stand in your way, but I don’t think you should do it alone. I can extend my stay, so I can be here when you—”

  “No.” I’m firm about this. Whatever happens, whether the ritual succeeds or not, I have to do this on my own. “Thanks, Callie, but this was intended to be a private ritual. It’s the only way.”

  ***

  Fourteen more days to go—and I see him.

  From across the street, I watch him waiting at the bus stop. He’s got a scar across his cheek and bloodshot blue eyes. He’s wearing a red baseball cap. I don’t know who he is, and if I had squelched the urge to wander the city tonight like I’ve been doing most nights, I never would have known he existed.

  But he does exist—and so do the three young specters, frightened and despairing, clinging to his hips. I watch the smallest of those boys tug fitfully at the man’s hair, but he pays no attention to the ghosts on his back. The man only scowls at his watch and taps a foot impatiently on the concrete.

  I turn away. I can see these ghosts even without Okiku by my side, and there’s no better proof that this was what I’ve been meant to do all along, with or without her.

  ***

  Twelve more days to go, and I feel like I’ve got all the time in the world.

  Kendele and her parents are leaving for California to get her settled at Stanford. I tag along to the airport to see them off, and as emotional as the moment is, I never expected her to actually cry. In full view of her parents, she throws her arms around me and plants a wet kiss on my lips, much to my embarrassment. I’d met her folks a couple of times, but I don’t think they were eager for front-row seats to a tongue-wrestling match between me and their daughter, though they’re more amused than angry.

  “We’ll always have Pho Junkies,” she whispers when we finally break apart and she’s no longer bothering to hide her tears.

  After they go through security, I decide to walk for a little while to clear my head.

  I used to hate change. Change meant never being able to stay anywhere for long. I always felt as if I was being pulled up like a weed before I ever had the chance to put down roots. Dad and I would move from state to state, so I never had anything constant to fall back on. Even the fixtures in my life, Dad and Callie, weren’t always there when I needed them, even when they wanted to be.

  Okiku was the first person in my life who was completely mine, in the same way that I was the only person that had ever been completely hers. She taught me to face my inner demons, that their presence did not mean I was broken. She loved my darkness, and I loved her light.

  I don’t know how long I walk, but by the time I snap out of my thoughts, night has fallen and the first stars wink down at me from the sky. My chest throbs painfully. The sudden pressure catches me off guard, and I stagger slightly before bracing myself against a nearby tree.

  It’s getting harder to fend off the energy swirling in my body. It’s getting more difficult to fight off the urge to…destroy. To test the limits of what I can do.

  I could level this town, I think. I could lay this city to waste. I could do what the kannushi, Hiroshi Mikage, aspired to do: to bend Japan under his power. I could do the same to this country. I look down at my fingers and I can practically see the energy gathering, waiting for me to give the word and unleash it on the unsuspecting populace.

  I could rule over any city—over anything really—that I choose. And nothing would ever need to change again.

  But I don’t. I control the pain. I have years of practice. I keep these black desires under lock and key.

  Even mindless, terrifying things, those that creep in the dark without any hope for light; even the malice that festers inside me, impatient at my idleness and desirous of a victim—even they want to be free.

  Twelve more days.

  ***

  One more day to go and Kagura contacts me through Skype—which is a surprise because she’s never done that before. I know what she wants to talk about long before her face flashes on the screen. She looks worried, just like Callie when we’d talked online only an hour or so ago.

  “How’s Riley?” I ask, heading off her first question.

  After the media circus died down, Stephen Riley chose to stay in Japan indefinitely, both to recuperate and to continue the search for his friends. We know some people, like Garrick Adams and Alan George, are a lost cause, but he’s still holding out hope for the others.

  I was right in my initial assessment of him though. Much to the miko’s discomfort, the man has taken a shine to her, visiting Kagura every couple of days at the Kamameshi Ryokan. He’s done everything short of actually asking her out on a date. If his feelings are obvious enough for Kagura to catch on, they would be obvious to anyone else. I’m sure he’ll work up the nerve one day.

  The miko blushes. “That is not important, Tark!”

  “I’m pretty sure Callie’s said everything you’re about to, Kagura-chan,” I tell her, laughing. “Yes, I’ll be okay. Yes, I’ve gone over your notes a hundred billion times, and I know what to do. Yes, I’m prepared to accept whatever happens, even if it doesn’t work. I’ll promise not to sulk—”

  “Tark.” Kagura is smiling. “I was not going to tell you all that. I just wanted to talk to you again before tomorrow.”

  “I’m absolutely flattered, Kagura-chan. I really am.”

  “You still have your sense of humor, so I am taking that as a good sign.”

  “I always have a sense of humor. What were you expecting me to do, rampage through Washington, DC, and make Godzilla look like a hamster?”

  “Are you?”

  Kagura never looks like she’s joking, so I watch her for a moment to make sure she’s serious.

  “Was that what you were afraid of? That I was going to give in to the temptation and use…this?” I gesture at myself. “Now I’m sad you don’t trust me. Maybe I’ll go climb a tower and swat at a few airplanes.”

  “But it’s difficult, isn’t it?” Kagura’s eyes probe at me through the screen. “It was a very powerful hell’s gate, Tark, and you sapped most of its power. It wants to escape, and it could still convince you not to wait out the hundred days.”

  “I’m keeping it in check. It’s been ninety-nine days. I’m sure I can make it one more day.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  I close my eyes briefly. “I’d be lying if I said no. It puts ideas into my head that I’m not altogether repulsed by. But I’m stronger than it, Kagura. Let’s just say that I have a more compelling motivation than to become some criminal mastermind.”

  “You really love her, don’t you?” There is no derision or fear in the miko’s voice when she asks me that. No judgment or disgust. She’s dealt with a lot of ghosts as a miko. I suppose out of everyone, she understands my relationship with Okiku best.

  “Yes. I do. In every sense of the word.” I pause. “You know what’s ironic? Before Okiku…left, she said she felt guilty. As if she was responsible that I didn’t have a normal life. I wish I’d been able to tell her that she was wrong. She’s a powerful spirit in her own right, you know? She could have been anything, Kagura. She could have ripped
the moon out of the sky if she wanted to, could have been a goddess in her own right. But she chose me—to be with me, to protect me.” I pause. “I know it sounds weird…”

  Kagura smiles. “No, it does not. If there is one thing I am sure about, it’s what the two of you have. Just promise me, Tark—promise me you’ll be all right after this, whatever happens. If any part of you doubts, do not go through with the ritual tomorrow. Any lingering doubts you feel will weaken the rites, and the malice knows it. I trust you, but I cannot lie and say I am not afraid for you. It is a decision you must make on your own.”

  “I can’t lie and say that I’m not frightened. But I love her more than I’m afraid.”

  After Kagura signs off, I go back to the piles of notes surrounding my laptop. I’ve been reviewing the necessary hymns and the miko’s research for the greater part of the night, remembering all I need for the ritual tomorrow.

  I reread the ritual for the Hundred Days of Mourning for what feels like the eight hundredth time. I feel nervous and hopeful and scared. But doubt is the last thing I feel, because I know I want to see the ritual through, whatever happens.

  ***

  This isn’t the first time I’ve snuck into Rock Creek Park, and I sincerely doubt it’s going to be the last. Dad was quick to let me be tonight, figuring I was still bummed about Kendele leaving and wanting to be by myself for a while when I told him I was going to take a drive.

  In a way, he’s right. I miss Kendele a lot, despite the numerous emails and calls since she arrived in California. But this evening, I have something important to do, and every nerve in my body is fired up. Even the energy curling inside me is eager, expectant. The anger feels diminished, more distant and controlled.

  I make it to Okiku’s and my favorite spot and wait for the night to settle in. I keep an eye out for any park rangers and personnel, just in case, and then wait an hour or so more before I make my move.

  It’s not a very difficult ritual to perform—easier than others I’ve done over the last few months, in fact. The problem with the Hundred Days of Mourning ritual is that the book says you never know what’s going to happen, no matter how well you prepare. It’s a personal ceremony. No one else may be in attendance, making it impossible for onmyōji to verify the success of those who claim to have performed the ritual. It seems fitting that one must give up the greatest power in private without the benefit of an audience. It proves that you are giving it up willingly in exchange for something infinitely more important.

  I can’t use recorded incantations or hymns for this ritual. I studied the words and committed them to memory. I know by heart every gesture needed. Kagura coached me until I was pitch-perfect—and then insisted on constant practice until there was no doubt in either of our minds that if anything went wrong during the ceremony, it was not going to be my fault.

  There is no need for candles or for protective markings on the ground. When the witching hour begins, I only need to close my eyes and let the chants do their work, allowing the wind to carry my words high into the heavens so my plea can be heard.

  The magic inside me shrieks, angry that it is to be used for creation rather than for destruction. But the beauty of the mourning ritual is that love can transform even the vilest, most twisted energy into a thing of redemption.

  I say the incantations and lose myself in the words, and everything around me responds.

  When I open my eyes, I am surrounded by pillars of light that extend so far that my eyes can’t see how high they go. And then I feel the whispers, feathery touches on my cheeks and forehead, tingling where they leave their marks. Spirits surround me, some I recognize from my past. I see Hotoke Oimikado again, her face shining, and I see even Obaasan and Amaya from the Chinsei shrine, the mikos who traded their lives for my own a year ago.

  Tears blur my vision. They roll down my cheeks without shame when I see my mother’s spirit standing in front of me. The love in her gaze warms me. My chants waver, but I know my purpose and resume them with renewed vigor.

  I should have been strong enough to move on without Okiku, to accept that she’s gone. People lose loved ones every day, and they learn to move on. But I’m no hero. I’m just a seventeen-year-old boy who wants her back.

  And in my memory, I hear her: Remember me sometimes. She said it as if she had resigned herself to her fate—but her tone said anything but.

  The fireflies hover around me, and I feel the swirling black malice leave my body. I hear it shriek in my mind one last time—we are power—and then it’s gone, absorbed into the bright lights. My mother reaches over and touches my cheek. I am so proud of you, my Tarquin is what I hear in my head before the bright lights fade and my mother and the other spirits disappear, leaving me in the darkness.

  But I am not alone.

  I hear someone move behind me. I am exhausted, drained of the energy that sustained me the last few months and robbed of the strength that kept the malice at bay. The presence feels so good, so familiar, that I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sky.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to everyone and no one all at once. I turn.

  And I smile.

  “What took you so long?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Peace

  For someone who’s spent almost his whole life stalking his victims before he kidnaps and kills them, Steven Blair is woefully incompetent when it comes to knowing when he’s being stalked himself.

  To everyone around him, he seems to be a cheerful enough guy, a hard drinker who likes to hang out at pubs and tell tall tales over pints of Guinness and spicy chicken wings. He’s still wearing that red baseball cap, and the scar is white against his cheek, which is flushed from the booze. At the end of one outrageous story—I’m not close enough to hear the gist of it, though his listeners’ incredulous laughter confirms it—he basks in the limelight, preening his metaphorical feathers, and I sit back and let him take in the adoration. It’s going to be his last performance, so I suppose I can accord him some magnanimity.

  Waiters glance suspiciously at me. I could probably have a fake ID made somewhere, but I still look a little too young to make it believable. As long as I keep ordering orange juice and not hard liquor, they aren’t inclined to kick me out, leaving me in peace while I wait for my target to leave.

  It’s about ten minutes to midnight before he finally does just that, waving to his barroom friends one last time before stumbling out into the now-empty street. I gulp down the rest of my juice, toss enough bills on the table to pay what I owe, and then sidle out after him, keeping my cap low in case there are security cameras in the vicinity. There usually are, and my dark cap and dark sweater won’t give away any of my features.

  I know for a fact that the alley Steven Blair just stumbled into doesn’t have any cameras, which is what I was hoping for. I’ve watched him for a week to figure out his habits. He’s at the pub most nights, and he always takes the back door. Steven stops wobbling and gets sick behind one of the Dumpsters. By the time he straightens up, I’m blocking the exit out to the street. He squints at me and scowls. I’m a little too old for his tastes, if the three five-year-olds on his back are of any note.

  “Go ’way, boy.” He makes a swipe at me. Because he’s still about ten feet away, he misses and nearly falls on his face again.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not what you told the little boys you killed,” I say, my voice unexpectedly loud in the otherwise quiet.

  His face pales, a touch of sobriety creeping in. “Wh-what the hell are you talking about?”

  “You’ll know in about five seconds.” There’s barely any light in the narrow alley, but there’s still enough to see shadows playing on the grimy brick walls on either side. I watch as another figure detaches itself from my own, lengthening until it is of a size and shape that could not possibly be human.

  I turn and stride away.

  The man only screams once. His gurgles are silenced quickly. I step out into the street, hitch m
y coat closer around me, and check for signs of anyone who might have been attracted to the noise. No one is, not at this time of night.

  I sit down on the curb and take in a deep breath, liking the chill in the air. I’m no longer haunted by these midnight excursions. If I’ve learned anything these last few months, it’s that everyone can choose their own purpose. This is mine.

  It doesn’t take long before I feel her standing beside me. I can feel the warmth of the souls she carries in her arms, the peace and relief that comes with each successful rescue. Technically, I no longer need her to fend off other supernatural entities—something in the hell’s gate energy cured me of that lapse when it left my body. But habits are hard to break, and while I could be miles away, back at my house asleep in bed, I find that my need to be here with her is just as great as her need to be with me.

  She sits, still holding the ten-year-olds close to her chest. The changes in Okiku are extraordinary. In her darker moments, she still adopts the guise of the drowned undead, but more often than not, she chooses to appear as her human self. The hundred days she spent in the afterlife gave her the ability to retain a greater semblance of who she was when she was alive. The frightening, malevolent voices no longer speak to her. The ritual took away her malice, like it took the power I’d acquired from that silkworm tree. She is no longer driven to hunt killers because of the voices in her head.

  But we hunt them all the same. For the first time in our lives, we have a choice.

  It was an easy one to make, now that I think about it. It’s odd how some decisions we make when we feel we have no other choice are the same ones we make when we do.

  I take Okiku’s hand in my own and feel the little fluttering souls dancing in my palm. As one, we release them. They glide away from us, circling us briefly the way moths are drawn to flame before they remember themselves and fly up into the night.

  “Don’t you have any regrets?” I ask, as we watch the spirits wink out. “You could be up there with them, you know.”

  “No.” She squeezes my hand. “I am content.”