Chapter Thirty Demons #2
The woman spoke again. “She really loved you, you know. It’s sad.”
“What does that mean?” the girl asked.
The sick man, Shigeo; the child wondered: Why can he not move?
He looked as if his shoulder where she touched him had begun to burn, as though it had been stricken with some poison, and as she beckoned him again, he looked surprised to find himself moving slowly, awkwardly back to her.
She stood in the middle of the garden, looked up to falling snow.
“She should not have died,” the woman said. “Truly. So many should not have died. I know where she is. She is waiting for you.”
“You’re a demon.”
The woman considered this. “I am a mirror.”
“I will not help you.” His sword glinted; the scabbard flew from his hand. With a shout, he struck. The sword sank deep into her chest, and he didn’t stop, ramming forward, up to the hilt.
The woman looked at him.
Red blood leaked out from his heart.
He made a wet sound, a cough; blood spat from his mouth.
“I am sorry for you,” the woman said. “But it is… ordained. The curse of the three cannot be undone. But don’t worry. You’re not part of it anymore. You are free.”
Shigeo fell back, stumbling, his sword still in her chest. Finally, she drew it out, pulling it from her own body, and when she did, a fountain of blood burst from his chest, in the spot where he’d stabbed her.
“Your heart is hurting,” she said, holding the sword as if waiting for him to take it.
Below, in their clean water, three goldfish spun and played.
He gasped. He coughed thick clots of blood.
He fell.
“I told you,” she said. “I am but a mirror.”
She sat beside him, drew a clean cloth from her cloak. She began to polish the blade as he gasped and bled out on the steps.
The girl watched in silence.
Shigeo’s legs were twisted below him. The lifeblood spread, dark, thick, rich; he had but moments left. “Hush now,” the woman said. “Hush, it’s over now.” He gasped. The dark colors of his blood seemed to grow brighter as it spread across the snow. The white, the red. The contrast.
The woman held his hand.
Beside her, the child had come as well, and joined them.
He can feel me pull his shirt apart, she thought, can feel me pull his skin, his muscle, and his bones.
She beheld the sword. She held his heart inside his opened chest. He can feel my tiny, freezing fingers, chilled by ice, water, snow.
She removed her hands, began to paint some letters on the stone in bright red blood. Snow fell again.
“Once,” the woman said, “I was a girl who just wanted to be happy. I had a mother, a father… but the wars came, and they couldn’t keep me safe.
They loved me… then they died. And I found myself in a temple, a young shrine maiden…
I met evil. I was cursed, and for years, I thought there was nothing in the world but pain.
Now I see… I have been sent back to help the passing of souls, to cleanse the earth of this evil.
Now I see… I am a mirror… I show you what you are… ”
Shigeo shook. “Spirit… w-why do you not rest in peace?”
“I cannot,” the woman said. “I have been separated from this filthy world, but I cannot pass into the next. We hear them, you see, the voices. The banished gods. The gods with whom Sutoh made his deal. Wait, they tell us. Linger. Do not fade away. The time will come. Find the son of Keishi. Step forward, pass the years. Wait for the sign.”
She went to him, her eyes so pure.
“And now, we find you. And it is time. You see, Shigeo, you are close to both: to Seikiyo and Goshira; to Keishi and Ten’in. You are the one who held balance between them. You are the one who will injure them the most.”
Shigeo gasped, fading. She leaned closer. “But is this not good? This cleansing of the earth? Is this not what we want?”
She placed the sword gently on the ground beside him, near the words the girl had painted in his blood. “Yes,” she said at last. “A mirror. That’s all it is.”
When the young man stopped breathing, the girl rose, and went to her sister again.
“Come,” the woman said.
The girl followed her into the house. Again it was quiet. Again she waited as the demon went to work. A desk, an inkwell. Paper in a stack. The demon found a brush, began preparing the ink. It spread, it glistened, wet in the moonlight over snow.
The girl watched again. In her sister’s hands, she saw small strips of paper no larger than her palm.
With brush and ink, the demon wrote upon them, graceful letters like those that marked her skin.
When she was done, she laid them on the table, each small strip the width of three fingers on a hand.
They rose into the air, floating – and then they scattered to the corners of the room, forming shadows of vaguely human shape, each one marked with inky squares of paper that hung where a face should have been.
They waited, these shadows, silent, spectral; like her, the girl; like they were ghosts. Shikigami, she thought. The summoned.
They were waiting for her to tell them what to do.
“Sister,” she said. “What sign were we waiting for? All this time?”
The woman gazed into the night. “A sign of plagues. ‘When the low overthrow the high, and the mountains burn. And the fields lie fallow.’”
“Is that now?” asked the girl.
“Yes, child. It is now.”
She lowered her brush with care. One last dip into the well, a final paper stroke: and she wrote a lonely word, one character to bind the rest, on the single square of paper that remained.
When it was done, the girl asked: “What are you doing?”
“We need to find someone,” the demon said. She had finished with her strokes.
“One of the three?” the girl asked.
The demon lifted her last paper to the air. It wavered, hovering, in the changing dark. “Yes,” she said. “One of the three.”
She released the paper then, setting it free: it rose and drifted near the others. On it, the girl saw small letters, painted stark black on the white. It was a single word. It was a name.
It read:
Starlight.