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Karasu (烏) - Part 10

Because I’m so lazy that I can’t even draw my own OCs, not to mention being horrible at scenery, YUKI DREW THIS CHAPTER’S SKETCH BECAUSE SHE IS AMAZING. 

Okay, so if any of you remember that picture I drew a long time ago with Shichi on the statue, it was originally drawn with this specific chapter in mind. Obviously, things changed when I actually wrote it out (he is uninjured and wearing a rather nice outfit in that drawing, where in this chapter he is ragged and horrible looking). Also he doesn’t have time to sit around and mope on statues what is this some kind of vacation jeez.

Previous: Part 9

Beginning: Part 1

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(sketch by Yuki)

Karasu, Part 10

The rain continued to pour as the two survivors collected the bodies of the fallen. Lacking the resources to perform proper a funeral, they chose to cremate the monks together. The human men had been bound with scraps of cloth and secured to a thick tree, leaving the tengu enough time to go through with their sober task. Teacher and student stood side by side, watching the fire as they offered their final prayers.

It wasn’t the first funeral Shichi had attended. In the decades he’d lived at the temple, he had seen young tengu arrive as the old passed away. He had grown from a boy to an adult and had watched his peers rise and fall. Many of the others were much younger than he — Shichi had never wanted to outlive them. He couldn’t help but think, as he watched the flames consume their remains, that this wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

Shichi and Sagiri avoided speaking as they gathered what supplies they could find. Little had escaped the fire. A sealed box of acupuncture needles had survived, as well as a few robes and a gourd of liquor.

“Take a shakujo,” Sagiri instructed, gesturing to the walking staves that had fallen from their mounts. He knelt, carefully lifting a wooden staff from the film of ash that covered the floor. It had withstood more damage than the others, bearing only a few blackened scratches. Shichi ran his thumb along the iron rings which hung from the head, drawing forth a metallic chime. These were normally only used for ceremonies or as a weapon in self-defense — he had never needed one in the past. When he glanced at Sagiri questioningly, she gave a simple reply.

“We have a long way to walk.”

With a small satchel in one hand and the staff in the other, Shichi followed the older tengu away from the ruins of the temple. He fought the urge to glance back. From that point on, he could only look forward.

Sagiri would not say where they were going. She only instructed that he follow, leading her pupil through the wet forest. Their breath left trails as they walked, making their way over frozen roots and hardened streams. It wasn’t long before Shichi was hit by a wave of dizziness, making each step a hurdle, filling his head with a faint buzzing. Initially, he attributed it to his emotional distress. When his wound began to swell, however, he realized that the source was physical. His skin felt hot around the stitches and he couldn’t discern whether the pounding he felt was from his head or his heart.

Despite his symptoms, he remained silent. Once the men freed themselves, they would surely tell the others of their survival. It was possible they’d be chased — hunted down for as long as it would take. Resting was not an option. He was already slow enough as it was; he was certain that Sagiri had halved her pace for his sake. Tightening his grip on the walking staff, he shook his head and carried on behind her.

On the third day, the dizziness blossomed into a fever. A liquid had begun to seep from his wound, though he dared not remove the bandages to check. The throbbing was so distracting that he almost didn’t notice when Sagiri stopped and spoke.

“We’re here.”

He looked up to see a wide clearing in the woods. Though the trees were bare, their branches were ancient and twisted enough to block most of the sun. Only a few faint streams of light filtered through, revealing a modest hut tucked against the base of a tree. Beside it ran a narrow stream, though most of it had been stiffened into ice. A patchwork of thick roots covered the ground, many dipping hungrily into water’s edge.

“Are we safe?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

When she nodded, Shichi took in a deep breath. The air was icy as it filled his lungs, temporarily cooling his warm throat.

“I have a fever.”

This was all he could manage to say before the staff fell from his hand with a clang, his body dropping curtly to the ground beside it.

He was barely aware of what happened next, vaguely recalling his mentor taking him into the hut. After placing him on a straw mat, Sagiri set to work removing the bandages and checking the state of the wound. She tested the skin around the cut, taking note of the heat and pus. He hissed in pain as she pressed down, drawing a disappointed sigh from her chest.

“It’s infected,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You knew it was infected.”

Shichi only turned his head, ignoring her accusation.

“You’re an idiot,” Sagiri said, gloriously blunt as she uncapped the gourd of sake she’d salvaged. “And you deserve this.”

There was no time to protest as she placed a hand flat on his collar, using the other to pour the strong alcohol over the reddened flesh. His back jerked into an arc, fingers twisting into the straw as he cried out. Just as he began to catch his breath, she poured once more, robbing him of dignity as he tossed his head back to groan.

“I wouldn’t have had to do this if you’d have told me sooner,” she said, seething as she set aside the gourd. “Everything you’ve been though, and you want an infection to kill you?”

Without giving him a chance to respond, she left the hut to fetch a bucket of water. Upon returning, she washed her hands and set to work cleaning and draining the gash. The excessive length of the cut ensured that it would be a slow process and hiking through the forest had done no favors to his healing. Finally, the wound was dressed and set.

“You’re fortunate that chickweed can grow under the snow,” she said, tilting her head back to drain the remaining liquor in the gourd. When he didn’t respond, she lowered her gaze to meet his own.

“Or did you want to die?”

Shichi only closed his eyes.

“Dying is easy,” Sagiri said, her voice steady. “I taught you better than that.”

After a minute, he looked up again, letting out a soft breath.

“You did,” he admitted, then glanced up at the ceiling of the hut. “What is this place?”

“I spent a long time meditating here before I became an ordained bikuni,” she explained. “And occasionally afterwards, when I needed to clear my mind.”

Shichi could remember the few times that Sagiri had left the temple for a week at a time, usually leaving a staggering list of chores for him to complete before she returned. The hut looked as if she had built it herself. It was rather simple, having just enough space to provide shelter and keep a few necessities. His eye caught sight of a mortar and pestle on a low wooden table — she appeared to have left a few medical supplies from the past, as well.

“How long will we stay here?” Shichi asked, using conversation to distract him from the pain of his infected wound.

“There is another temple a two week’s journey from here,” she said, feeding the fire in the small sand-filled pit near the center of the room. “I will be joining them. You, however, must find your own path.”

Though Sagiri had always been strict with him, stifling his pride with criticism and elusive expectations, the thought of being apart from her left a pang of fear in his chest. She had been a source of guidance and stability for nearly all of his life. He had never been on his own before.

“My own path?”

“Yes,” she replied. “And it will not be easy. You will wander without rest. You will be hunted. You will suffer. All you can do is to devote yourself to helping others. Then perhaps one day your life will find balance again.”

Shichi fell silent. Despite the inevitable hardship he would face on his own, he was thankful for the chance to redeem himself. This, he realized, was why he had survived. Only one thing troubled him about her outlook — if he was destined to suffer, he could not bear asking Kana to share the same fate. If his life was to be spent on repentance, would there be any room in it for love? He remembered, however, his promise to return to her. Her place in his future would be her choice, in the end.

“I understand,” he finally answered.

“Unfortunately,” she continued, glancing down at him with an arched brow. “You’re not yet ready to be on your own. I will train you for one more year before we part.”

Shichi exhaled. He would have embraced her if he weren’t certain that she’d recoil in irritation. Though he had been prepared to make his own way, he felt incalculable relief at her words. One year was a scant amount of time in a tengu’s lifespan, but it would be all that he needed.

“You would still train me, after what I did?” he asked, unable to hide his skepticism.

“Dwelling on the past detracts from the future. You can either lay there and question me, or you can shut your beak and get some rest.”

Shichi took the hint, going quiet as he closed his eyes.

“And you had best sleep while you can. When you’re healed, I’m going to work you to the bone.”

Despite the severity in her tone and the transparent threat in her words, Shichi found himself glad to hear them. He had experienced incredible loss, pain, and guilt in the last few days. Yet somehow, as he lay next to the dim fire, all he could feel was gratefulness for what he had left.