Worship

Hoshi walks up the mountain trail, placing her feet with utmost care so as not to crush the weeds which grow between the cobblestones. Her thin-soled slippers scrape against the rock like a sweeping broom, evidence that her footfalls have gotten heavier and more laborious over the course of her trek. Still, Hoshi refuses to step into the soft trailside grass. The monks of Katem Sha had taught her never to injure a living thing, from the charging boar to the supple blade of grass.

Her goal is singular. She is to climb Mount Oniyama, meet with the local kami, and convince them to return the river to the valley. Many moon-cycles ago, two lovers carved their names into a glorious red maple. This angered Oniyama, and in their rage the kami locked up the river deep within the mountain. Now, the villagers downstream are on the brink of starvation.

Hoshi feels the weight of her responsibility deep in her gut. She is young and inexperienced, not raised in the monastery but adopted as a defector from the Azuchi war band. She fears the kami will see the barbarian in her heart, or smell the blood on her hands. Nearly all spirits can. Brother Yurihito says this is why the forest is quiet now: the scent of war has driven the kodama into hiding.

Straining against the pain in her legs, she crests the final hill and takes in the scene. A quiet shrine rests before her, the wind breathing through the clearing as if the forest were asleep. A trickle of water disturbs the stagnant fountain, upon which float lily pads the size of snowshoes. The air is colored with the petals of the red maple, which sags over the offering box as if it might fall over. The earth smells like decay, the deaths of thousands upon thousands of living things condensed into the rich stench of an old battlefield. It is a smell she is unfamiliar with, as the Azuchi never visit the same lands twice.

Hoshi looks around, expectant, waiting for Oniyama to appear. The monks say he appears as a giant raccoon, or perhaps a man with a tiger’s body, or a chorus of songbirds. Or maybe he will send a sign, or an emissary, a sudden pricking at the base of the neck or a sweet scent on the wind.

But nothing seems out of the ordinary, and Hoshi is struck with doubt. Oniyama is not here. Perhaps he will not meet with her — she smells like murder, after all. Perhaps he has left the mountain entirely, to decay and falter in his absence, and the river will never run again. Hoshi stands perfectly still, knees locked, defying the weight of her realization.

She takes stiff steps towards the red maple, careful not to tread on the brown lichen which has grown over much of the shrine. She places her hand to it, tracing the grooves in the bark with an index. Her finger comes away black and green, and looking at the tree from beneath she sees that many of the leaves are similarly rotted. This shrine is choked with life, and it is dying because of it.

It is then that Hoshi feels a sudden pricking at the base of her neck, as she furrows her brow, suddenly disgusted by the detritus clinging to the red maple. She reaches to wipe the moss away and finds her fist balled in rage. Suddenly, she turns away, and strides towards the overgrown fountain. Her fingers curled into bestial claws, Hoshi rips the invasive lilies one by one from the water, breaking their roots and crumpling their leaves. There is a great gurgling as she tears the last lily pad from the fountain, and she watches as water begins to run over the side of the fountain and fill the shrine.

Hoshi’s senses come rushing back as she feels her soles moisten. The water is flowing around her feet, washing away the layers of grime that have grown over this sacred place. It floods the shrine, drowning the moss and weeds, sweeping the detritus back and down the mountain path in a single grand deluge.

But the water doesn’t stop. It continues to flow, pushing her, leading her towards the red maple. She sees the lovers’ carving, and planted next to it, the blade they used. It is a ceremonial tantō, intended mostly for political rituals. How many generations have held this blade’s handle, and how many of them have known the slickness of blood? Hoshi asks herself these questions as she breathes in the thick mist of a wild spring long suppressed. It smells like copper and caves and freedom.

Hoshi is without words, the force which guided her before now absent. She feels a pulse deep in her heart, heavier and louder than she has known for six years. It takes an eternity, but she reaches out and grabs the tantō. Hoshi wrenches the blade from the tree, and a sonorous sigh of relief echoes through the forest. The red maple groans, relaxing, and Hoshi is suddenly aware that they have arrived.

“Oniyama.”

The kami is a massive wolf, their paws draped over the offering box. They smell like a battlefield, and their claws are black as soot, yet the newborn river runs clean around their massive frame.

“Human.”

Even as the water rises, Hoshi kneels in the surging stream. The kami approaches.

“You will drown if you kneel, human. You must run.”

Hoshi’s voice trembles. “If I run, I may harm the forest. That would be shameful.”

“Run anyway. The forest will live in spite of you.”

“The monks… they taught me-“

“Katem Sha. Totokoro. Amatera. They are all teachers, but they only know parts of the whole. You must find yourself in the scattered pieces, human, and when you lose yourself you must run to find yourself again.”

The kami is close now, and Hoshi can see the lips curling over red stained teeth, the eyes that pierce her heart and nail her to the riverbed, the tendons straining beneath divine flesh. She can feel the pins and needles in her extremities, screaming at her to run. She can feel the kami in her body.

“But when you kneel, you cannot run. And if you cannot run, you will be eaten by a wolf. To be eaten would be shameful.”

Hoshi rises, brandishing the tantō in front of her — blasphemy in the halls of Katem Sha. Her stance is low, one foot forward, keeping distance between herself and the kami. They laugh, the face of the wolf sliding backwards into a wide, demonic grin.

“I have not seen proper worship in so many moon-cycles. You are an excellent attendant. Now, indulge my final ritual.”

Oniyama lowers themselves, tenses their hind legs, and prepares to pounce.

“Run, Hoshi.”