The children stood and began to shuffle off, many of them stopping to cover their fists and bow to Yukiko, whispering behind their hands. A deep growl from Buruu sent the stragglers scampering to catch up with their fellows.
Daichi stood and walked over to the railing. Eiko covered her fist and bowed low as he approached. Yukiko watched him carefully, trying to recall where she knew him from. All around, the forest was alive with the sound of birdsong, the perfume of fresh flowers. The old man stared out into the ocean of leaves, wrapped in the smell of wisteria.
“The children have heard of your battles,” he smiled. “They are quite impressed.”
“Impressed that I’m still alive?” Yukiko watched him carefully. “Or that oni exist?”
“You forget where you are, Yukiko-chan.” Daichi waved his hand across the vista. “The haunted valleys of the Iishi Mountains. Demons are as real as the trees or the sky to the children who grow up here.”
“Then why do you stay?”
“Long shadows. Dark nights. As far from the Shōgun’s throne as a man can be, and a thousand and one myths to keep superstitious eyes away.”
“I thought oni were just that.” Yukiko looked down at her hand, curling and uncurling her fingers. “Stories to frighten the simple and the young.”
“I am afraid not.”
“Where do they come from?”
Daichi blinked, as if he didn’t quite understand the question.
“From Yomi, of course.”
“Yomi?” Her voice fairly dripped skepticism. “The deepest hell?”
“Hai.” His reply was flat. Iron. “The deepest hell.”
“But the old tales . . .” Yukiko shook her head. “Even if they’re true, the gate to Yomi was sealed shut. And the Stormdancer Tora Takehiko gave his life to see that it would remain forever closed. My father used to tell us that story all the time.”
“It was a great sacrifice,” Daichi nodded. “But the cracks are big enough for the little ones to slip through.”
“Cracks?”
“The great boulder that the Maker God pushed into place over the Devil Gate is only stone. Stone breaks under enough force. Enough hate.”
“So it’s all true? The old stories? The myths my father told us at bedtime?”
Daichi tilted his head and frowned, motioned toward Buruu.
“You walked into this village with a thunder tiger beside you. You have slain demons with your own hands. Are the old myths really that hard to believe?”
“They wouldn’t be myths otherwise, would they?”
“Then have a care, Yukiko-chan,” Daichi smiled. “Keeping the company of the last arashitora in Shima sounds like an excellent way to become a myth yourself.”
The old man covered his fist and bowed. Clasping his hands behind his back, he walked off across the rope bridge, eyes still on the forest. Yukiko stared at his back until Eiko waved the soap in front of her face, a gentle smile on her lips. With a mumbled apology, Yukiko allowed herself to be led to the bathhouse, conscious of the many eyes on her.
Her tantō was a comforting weight in the small of her back.
Their nook was on a branch behind the bathhouse, obscured by thick tangles of wisteria blanketing the walls and the deepening light of dusk. Isao crouched low, eye to the peephole. His friend Atsushi, a wiry, quick-fingered lad one year his junior, sat beside him. The younger boy had drilled the hole several months ago, and the experiment had proved so successful that he’d since expanded the venture across the bedrooms of at least half a dozen girls in the village. His name meant “industrious,” after all.
“Is she in there yet?” Atsushi whispered.
“Hai, shhhh,” Isao hissed.
“Let me see.”
“You go to the Nine Hells. I found her in the forest. Besides you hogged it
yesterday.”
“Well, Hachiro’s wife was in there.”
“Gods above.” Isao pulled away from the peephole and scowled at his friend.
“She’s old enough to be your mother.”
“What can I say? I fancy older women.”
“Well, if you fancy being torn to shreds by the arashitora, keep talking.” “Aiya, it’s days like this I wish we had a picture box.”
“Shhhh!”
Isao pressed his eye to the hole again. He could see Yukiko sitting to one