Dragon Island

by Berryhill, Shane

If Tanuki is old, then the twin females sitting cross-legged on the hut’s floor are ancient. Literally! They have been seated there in that position so long that the creeper vines covering the floor, ceiling, and walls have grown into their snow-white hair and hand-woven robes, making it impossible to tell where the plants stop and they start.

  They stare at nothing with glazed blind eyes as blank and white as a necklace of pearls.

  But, shobijin or not, it’s obvious to me that this isn’t their natural state. The Sisters are withered and sickly even for someone of their unprecedented age.

  Suddenly I realize that I’m standing there, gaping at them like a person watching a train wreck instead of bowing like Ishiro. I drop to my knees and press my head to the floor.

  “Kintaro’s heir will rise and come forward,” the shobijin say in unison.

  I obey their command and come to stand directly before them. It takes every ounce of willpower I’ve got not to tremble in their presence.

  “She is Sister Mosura,” the shobijin on my right says.

  “And she is Sister Momoko,” the other shobijin says.

  Or at least, I think that’s what they say. To be honest, I’m not sure if they are speaking at all. For even though I hear the priestesses talking, their lips remain still.

  “We are—” Sister Mosura says.

  “The priestesses of Gryphina,” Sister Momoko finishes.

  “Your coming—” Sister Momoko begins

  “Has been foretold, heir of Kintaro.” Sister Mosura continues.

  “Heir of Kintaro the warrior.”

  “And more importantly, heir of Kintaro the healer.”

  “For it is you—”

  “Who will heal our affliction.”

  “And thus restore in full the Toho’s link to their dragon protector.”

  “So that the laughter of children may once again be heard—”

  “Along the paths of our village—”

  “And our tribe continue to grow and prosper.”

  Oh my! That’s why there aren’t any children in the village. The Toho are dying out! This must have been what Kitsune meant by the long, slow death of her tribe.

  “For only an heir of Kintaro—” Sister Mosura continues.

  “Can possibly succeed in this endeavor.” Sister Momoko finishes.

  “You must travel deep into the mountains—”

  “Crossing the territory of the Oni—”

  “To the home of the mountain hag, Yamanba.”

  “In her castle there lies a garden of golden flowers.”

  “You must bring one of their number to us—”

  “It is our only hope of restoration.”

  “It is a quest wrought with danger.”

  “But the Shokun’s son, Ishiro, will be there as your yojimbo—your bodyguard.”

  “It is not for us that we ask this.”

  “But for the good of Gryphina’s people.”

  “For if we perish—”

  “The link to Ryuu will be completely served—”

  “And the Toho will not survive.”

  “Now leave us—”

  “For we must rest.”

  With that, their blank eyes close in unison, dismissing us.

  I whirl and exit the house. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way in heck I’m going back into Oni country! Uh-uh! No way! No how!”

  Tanuki grins in response, his wide smile lifting his fleshy cheeks and turning them into pudgy twin balls.

  Chapter 22

  The dragon’s triangle once again lived up to its reputation during the Pacific War. Many of the losses recorded by both sides of the conflict are now being reevaluated within the context of the strange occurrences that have plagued the area throughout recorded history...

  —Excerpt from The Dragon’s Triangle, by James Clayton (2009)

  “Quit jerking so hard, you...you jerk!”

  My luck continues to improve the longer I stay on KaijuIsland.

  And yes, I’m being sarcastic.

  Since being marooned on this not-so-fabled island, I’ve been chased by dragons, attacked by monsters, and imprisoned by robots. But that has all just been a build up to my current situation.

  I now have the auspicious pleasure of being inescapably tethered at the wrist to Ishiro, the teenage warrior, and thus be forced to come along with him on some stupid quest right out of King Arthur to retrieve a magic, golden flower that will supposedly heal the local priestesses and save the day.

  Not exactly a good week in the life of Raymond Nakajima, to say the least!

  “If you would keep up, I would not have to, Outsider!” Ishiro says as he drags me toward a reed and bamboo house located along the village’s perimeter. It’s second in size only to the long house serving as the Toho seat of government.

  “I’m trying,” I bark. “But with this backpack weighing me down and you yanking me around every which way, it ain’t exactly easy.”

  Ishiro smiles at this.

  “Ah, yes. Your pack of peaches.”

  Despite the otherwise inhospitable treatment I’ve received since coming to the village of the Toho, they have served me a number of delicious foods. By far, my favorite Toho goodie is a white-skinned peach they serve as a desert.

  The taste is phenomenal!

  After my early experiences on KaijuIsland, there was no way I was forging off into the woods again without food in abundance.

  Ishiro can probably hunt for his food. But, my yojimbo or not, I can’t count on him to share with me. So I decided to come prepared.

  Last night, after returning from the volcano home of the shobijin, I used materials lying around inside my hut to create a makeshift pack for carrying the pale-skinned delicacies. It’s heavy as heck, but I know I will be glad for it later.

  “Little peach boy,” Ishiro laughs. “Little Momotaro!”

  Just keep it up, stink-face! You have got to sleep sometime! Then you’re mine!

  The entire village has come out to see us off on this sunny, late-summer day. But, their conduct isn’t like the cheering mobs one might expect to see gathered for such an occasion back in the States. The Toho are positioned in orderly formations on either side of us. They sing and move in unison as they perform ritual dances.

  Only the Toho elders don’t participate. They stand apart at our destination’s door, patiently awaiting us.

  I glance back at the crowd, looking for Kitsune’s face. She is nowhere to be seen.

  I make a last ditch effort to remove the rope tied around my wrist. But my attempts are in vain. Whatever knots Mujina tied to secure Ishiro and me together aren’t about to give up the secrets of their undoing.

  If only I had Kusanagi!

  We reach the elders. Ishiro bows, then yanks down on our tether, forcing me to pay my own respects.

  Ishiro and his father, Shokun Mujina, turn to face each another. They stare at each other in silence as the Toho continue singing and dancing behind us. I recognize the look in Mujina’s hard eyes. It’s one I’ve seen countless times in the face of my own father.

  “Succeed in this, my son,” Mujina says, “or you are dead to me and the rest of the Toho.”

  For the first time since meeting Ishiro, I feel something toward him other than spite. Sympathy, if not outright compassion.

  I guess where fathers and sons are concerned, things are tough all over.

  My jaw drops when Ishiro’s only response is another bow in his father’s direction.

  Tanuki places his hand on my shoulder. The jelly fat of his arm swings to and fro with the gesture.

  “Of course Ishiro-sai will succeed! He has the heir of Kintaro as his partner!”

  Mujina grunts in disdain.

  A grin splits Bakeneko’s face but doesn’t reach her eyes. Somehow her expression is familiar to me.

  “If the Shokun and his son lack Tanuki-sage’s faith in the outsider’s prowess, perhaps they will at least put more stock in that of the arms his people bear.�
��

  Arms? My people? What on Earth is she talking about?

  The elders step aside, opening a path to the door of the reed house.

  “Ishiro-sai,” Mujina says, “you know what must be done. Exit through the rear. Until you return with the golden flower, you are not Toho, and so must remain apart.”

  The elders bow and gesture for us to enter.

  “Come, Momotaro-sai,” Ishiro barks, then slides open the door to the house.

  He crosses the threshold. Having no choice, I follow. What I see inside leaves me speechless!

  The reed and bamboo walls are covered with countless flags. They are tattered and threadbare, but nonetheless, I recognize many of them. Some date back to the middle ages.

  Most numerous are the Japanese rising sun flags. And—like much needed reminders of home—several star-spangled Old Glories also adorn the walls!

  But, dear Lord! Is that a confederate stars and bars I see?

  As amazing as the flags are, they aren’t what astonish me the most. Arranged throughout the house are suits of rusted medieval armor, moth-eaten Renaissance era fashions, tattered log books, open chests of precious metals, rotted wooden kegs, and—best of all—weapons! Weapons of every description!

  I reach out and grab a rusted cutlass that could’ve come right out of a Johnny Depp pirate movie.

  I draw my arm in, pulling taut the rope fastening me to Ishiro.

  “No, don’t!” Ishiro yells.

  But it’s too late.

  I slice at the rope with the sword. But instead of cutting the rope, the force of impact simply pushes it to the floor. The action yanks Ishiro and I into one another, smashing our heads together.

  Livid, Ishiro rubs his forehead.

  “You idiot! That rope is woven from ironweed. It will take something supernatural to cut it. Like Kusanagi or the magic of the shobijin.”

  “How was I supposed to know?” I say, stars still spinning before my eyes.

  When my head clears, my eyes fall upon a handheld World War Two era submachine gun—one that I will later discover was called a ‘grease gun.’

  I rush forward and pick it up.

  I know that, here in the twenty-first century, ‘good people’ are not supposed to like guns. And I admit, they are bad—if bad people are on the other end of them. But the truth is I’ve not met a person of the male gender yet who wouldn’t love to get his hands on one. It’s just in our wiring, I guess.

  Maybe all men are dogs, in a manner of speaking?

  As for me, I’m no exception.

  What I would’ve given to have had this with me over the past several days. It would’ve been even better than having Kusanagi at my side.

  The kaiju better watch out, now!

  “Do you know how to work your people’s fire-spitter?” Ishiro asks.

  His closeness startles me. It’s so easy to forget that there’s only ten feet of rope separating us, and that where I go, he goes, and vise-versa.

  I cock back the grease gun’s bolt and then let it snap forward with a satisfying clack of metal upon metal.

  “Just point and pull the trigger,” I say.

  The truth is I’ve never fired a gun. Not a real one. But I’ve played enough first-person-shooters to glean the general concept of how they work.

  Ishiro shakes his head.

  “Dishonorable weapons for a dishonorable people.”

  “Whatever! I don’t see you laying down that bow on your back or that sword on your hip!”

  “My sword and bow require skill and reasonable proximity to my enemies. Not like the fire-spitters. They make killing impersonal—and easy. And when killing is easy, it rages out of control. Not only warriors perish, but the innocent as well.”

  “Blah! Blah! Blah!”

  I pick up another clip of ammo for the grease gun and stuff it in the back of my belt.

  Chapter 23

  Aokigahara is a dense, woodland forest located at the base of Mount Fuji in Japan. This so-called ‘Sea of Trees’ is a throwback to earlier, more superstitious times in the islands’ history when ghosts and monsters where thought to lurk behind every concealing tree and dwell in every dark cave...

  —Excerpt from Haunted Japan, by Lesley Kaye (2009)

  Ishiro and I leave the weapon house through the rear exit. I now carry the World War Two grease gun in my hand and a German Luger pistol in my belt. When we are far enough away to see around the building, I turn and look back at the Toho. They stand facing away from us.

  The only sound to be heard is that of the chirping cicadas.

  What a bunch of weirdos the Toho are. They forced me to go on this cockamamie journey. The least they could do is wave goodbye!

  “They will not acknowledge us again until we complete our quest.”

  Despite what Ishiro said about foreign weapons while inside the armory, he is now dressed in the crimson-brown armor of a medieval samurai. He has even tied his hair up in a knot at the crown of his skull.

  “Compassionate bunch of folks, you Toho.”

  “We are an honorable people, Momotaro-sai. And the path of honor is often a hard one to walk.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Whatever, grasshopper.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind.

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t under—?”

  “Which way are we going?”

  “Back into the mountains. Far beyond the entrance to the deep labyrinth and the dwelling of the shobijin, into the wilderness from which Kitsune says she found you.”

  Darn! I’ve come all this way just to have to turn around and go back.

  I groan in protest though I’d expected as much. How do you know what’s going to happen on Kaiju Island? Imagine the worst case scenario, double it, throw in giant dragons and fiendish monsters, and you are practically on your way to becoming psychic.

  “Come,” Ishiro grunts. He takes off for the river beyond the village, not bothering to see if I follow.

  I turn back to the village, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kitsune. Neither she nor any of the other Toho are standing outside. It’s as though I blinked, and they simply vanished.

  I feel a tug on the roped tied around my wrist. Before it can drag me off my feet, I whip around and jog after Ishiro, white-skinned peaches raining from my overstuffed backpack as I go.

  Although I’ve built up my physical stamina quite a bit since I crash-landed on Kaiju Island, it’s all I can do to keep up with Ishiro as we trek through the mountains leading into the territory of the Oni.

  So I’m much relieved when we reach our campsite for the night: a village of abandoned rock dwellings carved right out of a cliff-face. The gray structures and the cliff they are hewn from divide the greenery as they climb up the mountainside before us.

  The site reminds me of certain stone and plaster tribal ruins located in the Southwestern United States that I’ve seen pictures of, and I wonder not for the first time about the history of KaijuIsland and its people.

  “What is this place?” I ask.

  Ishiro stares warily at the stone dwellings.

  “A failed settlement by an off-shoot of my people.”

  “Failed? What happened to them? Where did they go?”

  Ishiro looks at me, his face as serious as the stone comprising the cliff.

  “Pray that you do not find out, Momotaro-sai.”

  Oh boy! Here we go again. Did I mention how much I love KaijuIsland?

  Again, note the sarcasm.

  Ishiro sighs, mentally shaking himself.

  “Darkness will fall soon. We must gather stones to form the kanji of Gryphina. It will keep the forest kaiju at bay.”

  Ishiro’s voice drops to a mumble so that I’ve trouble hearing the rest of his words above the din of the cicadas—something about, “village,” and “kaiju,” and “another matter?”

  Whatever it is, he dismisses me when I ask him to repeat himself and sets to work gathering stones.


  Not wanting to be caught with our metaphorical pants down come nightfall myself, I drop the matter and join him in the work.

  The nocturnal kaiju have just begun to howl by the time Ishiro and I have the stones in place. The sun sets and we retreat into one of the small stone-hewn rooms we have chosen to bed down in. The room has only one doorway and window open to the night, making it easy to guard. Ishiro chose the place for that very reason, I’m sure. He may not be one for heady conversation, but he’s a handy dude to have around.

  Ishiro’s one of those ‘guys,’ you know? The kind back in the outside world who know how to get things done even at a young age—the kind who seemingly have an innate knowledge of how to fix things around the house when they breakdown—the kind that make you feel extremely inadequate by comparison.

  Ishiro is also quite a shot with the bow and arrow. Earlier in the day, he impaled two squirrel-like creatures—while we were tied together and on the run, I might add—with a single bolt!

  As if to back up my thoughts on his array of talents, Ishiro skins and cooks one of the two squirrel creatures in no time flat. When it’s done, he picks up the stick skewering the tiny beast and tosses it at me.

  “Here. Eat. You will need more than peaches to keep up your strength, Momotaro-sai.”

  I fumble the catch and the roasted animal lands on the dusty stone floor.

  Hey, the closest I’ve ever come to playing sports is being in the Bradbury High School Glee Club. All-time leading pass receiver Jerry Rice, I’m not.

  Ishiro laughs hysterically as I scramble and snatch the blackened carcass off the floor. I bring it up to my mouth to take a bite, then stop myself.

  Where are your manners and gratitude, Raymond? You are proving that you are the dishonorable stooge Ishiro claims you to be.

  “What about you—?” I look up and see Ishiro gutting the other squirrel-beast—with his fingernail, of all things.

  He scoops out the dead animal’s intestines, flings them out the sole window of the stone dwelling we’re in, then takes the creature into his mouth, fur and all!

  He bites, chews, swallows, then looks up at me.

  The lower half of his face is smeared with blood and fur.