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.