Chapter Text
Winding cobblestone paths were lined with full-bloom cherry blossom trees. They towered and reached over enough to hide the sky from view—just a soft, floral sea of pink whenever he looked up. The breeze in the area made some branches shiver and shed petals, adding color to the gray rock pathway that he walked.
Statues peeked at him from behind the trees as if too shy to come out and play but acknowledged and welcomed his presence. Fox-like creations that stood the test of time and bad weather with red scarves tied around their necks. Expressionless muzzles, but extra care was taken to carve out their eye sockets that stared at him and followed his movement. Taller than him, a lot taller than him, with the pedestals they proudly sat upon. More menacing in the winter when all was gray and cold and snow dusted the fake fur of the statues that seemed ready to pounce. Not so much in the springtime. They simply played hide-and-seek as he climbed the mountain.
A narrow corridor caged him in the closer he got to his destination. Lined with paper charms and the scribblings of since-departed visitors wishing to make their ramblings known to whatever gods that be who might be listening in on the mortal world. He gave them all a passing glance, nothing more. Some had children's drawings attached of what he assumed was a stick-figure family, and others stood out in neon highlighter with hearts dotting paper edges. The common theme was the desire to be blessed with fortune, however arbitrary one’s idea of fortune was. Gods could not turn back time and undo the worst days of some of these people’s lives, but they could offer the comfort that human prayers were heard and accepted. And maybe one day acted upon. That was the hope in the folktales passed down throughout history.
He heard several variations of the tale that befell this place. Most not so good. But the story was so old (thousands and thousands of years old) that it was impossible for it not to have divided and multiplied into something fantastic and whimsical in the modern age. Some said the spirit still haunted the grounds, ever watching the mortals wasting their time praying to the backs of nongods. And having a laugh about it. Sometimes it was a female in retellings, sometimes a male, neither. It took on whatever appearance it and the object of its want desired. Beauty was in the eye of the beholder, after all. The only fact retained was that it always had nine tails. Equally mesmerizing, equally terrifying.
Whimsical, because it became a children’s bedtime story. Children did not like the idea of going to sleep with the story ending in the man-eating kitsune devouring its lover hand-by-hand and leaving the head for last. All the merrier, so the poor, dead human can feast their soulless eyes upon their trickster that was once between their thighs and now closed in on their face.
No, the man-eating kitsune of yore was a village-saving hero who made peace living among humans.
The summit’s archway was a brilliant red with yellow accents to match the fox scarves. Off to the side, looking beyond and below was forestry all around. There was no recognition. Only the immensity of the green sea, and the cold radiating from it. Verdant foliage grew more vibrant as dawn broke over the horizon and the sky lit up. He was early enough that there was only one other visitor paying respects, maintaining a silent, if peaceful, air to the shrine. Feeling something tickle near his ear, Chuuya ran a hand through his hair, fingers coming away with a few petals that fell on him at some point. The floral scent was strong but soothing when he rubbed and rolled some of them around in his palm, dropping them.
Courtyard nature was a little different here. The cherry blossom trees thinned out to make way for flowerbeds and trimmed bushes that surrounded the area. A fox statue guarded an offering box that stood in front of a small temple farther ahead—hovered over it, whether protectively or jealously, he wasn’t sure with its stony gaze. A shrine maiden swept floorboard by the entrance to the temple, the only living testament that this was a place of worship and not one of deception and lies. Carved out in the center was a sprawling cedar tree with branches angled in wild directions, some low to the ground, some reaching high, high for the sky.
He bowed in respect before passing through the gate toward the offering box.
Despite some of the unsavory (and oftentimes gruesome) interpretations elders had of this place, it was regarded as one to seek and find your peace. Embrace divinity, bathe in nature and creatures that inhabit the grounds. Ignore the restless spirit and the nagging suspicion that a curse may or may not have befallen this sanctuary, and all was well. At times it felt off to Chuuya. He preferred coming to the shrine in the morning as opposed to the evening because whenever the sun set and the insects buzzed alive in the night, something ominous swallowed the holiness and stamped out the unheard mortal pleas.
Only twice did he come in the evening. Twice, because the first time could’ve been his vivid imagination painting shadowy illusions among willowy trees. The second time was on a summer’s eve, cool but not the brutal cold that washed over the temple and made him shiver while he was in prayer. Among the crickets weaving their melodies were cut-short screams and crunches and snaps somewhere in the far back that he didn’t dare investigate. When asked, a shrine maiden regarded him with a look of confusion and suggested it may have been a pair of mating foxes.
Something about that sounded off, but he didn’t pry.
Come to think of it, he never recognized any returning visitors. They were always new faces. The only constant was the shrine maiden working tirelessly from sunrise to sunset, never saying more than a few words. Any time that he tried to engage her in conversation, she seemed taken aback like whatever was asked of her was not found on the script of lines she was supposed to recite.
“Good morning.” The sweeping lady acknowledged him with a polite bow, stepping aside to brush dirt particles from the wood flooring.
Chuuya bowed in kind. “Good morning.”
The air remained chilly, showing no signs of warming up even as morning approached. A gust sent a shiver up his spine when he approached the offering box, prayed for his arbitrary idea of good fortune, and slotted a five-yen coin in the opening. He took his shoes off and left them by the entrance to the temple, wood polished and almost slippery beneath his feet. The interior was good, cherished, and cared for, in the hands of a tending, nearly nonverbal owner. All in the name of pleasing the guardian that watched over the place.
Sometimes Chuuya ventured a little farther past where visitors were welcomed, close to the back where he once heard those godawful sounds. He suspected there was another room blocked off by a partition. Would asking the young lady yield any answers? They were probably not included in her script. He strained to hear anything that wasn’t broom bristle on floor. Nothing. Whatever was back there—if there was something back there—it did not respond.
He sat with his legs tucked underneath him in front of another one of the many fox statues. This one was larger, lacked a scarf, had the end of its bushy tail adorned with a golden bell. It did not look straight ahead, but down at him, down at whoever’s turn it was to pay respects. It looked quite proud, rather than expressionless like all the others. Confident stone stare that had its chiseled mouth ending in a slight curve.
It was a little unnerving. He chose to pray for protection today.
When he finished and turned to leave, he first realized that the sweeping maiden was gone. Then realized that fog crept in and settled over the mountain. Thick, dense, the sun’s rays couldn’t pierce the whiteness. He could still make out the forms of the statues in the area and the tree in the center of the courtyard. He looked around for the woman, rounded the perimeter of the temple, but there was no one. Just his wayward presence wandering like the lost soul he was, stepping through and trampling over the flowerbeds that he failed to notice until it was too late.
He should leave.
Retracing his steps back to the courtyard, he eventually found the gate and descended the mountain. Its long winding paths were no longer littered with cherry blossom petals. Rock was uneven beneath his feet. The statues along the way cut through the fog, continuing the hide-and-seek, now insisting that it was Chuuya’s turn to hide as their gazes followed him. He had until the count of ten, ready or not. After walking, walking, walking for some time, his third realization was that he never went through the corridor of paper charms. There was the bubbling of a brook in the distance, the rush of downstream water. He kept going in whatever direction was forward because there was only one path, and he could feel the steady decline of going down a hill. It was a lot easier coming down than going up.
A clearing opened to the brilliant red-and-yellow archway of the shrine. The fog disappeared. But the woman returned, broom in hand, still by the temple’s entrance.
Now a man dressed in a kimono was standing in front of the overgrown tree in the middle, back turned. He could make out various fabric blues and a sash tied at the waist, silk trimmings growing more elaborate the closer he got. Another visitor he’s never seen before. Chuuya spared the man a passing glance, a serene expression on his face as he admired the tree, unblinking. Ignoring Chuuya’s presence.
Chuuya approached the maiden and mustered a smile despite the unease he felt. He didn’t know how to explain that he somehow got lost and wound up at the shrine again. There was one way up, one way down. Unless, of course, one took a detour through wilderness and braved whatever lurked out there. Signs along the way warned against doing this. And fatalities have been reported in the past.
“Sorry to bother you,” Chuuya said with a bow as an apology for interrupting her mid-sweep, “I think I’m lost?” He sounded so completely unsure of himself like the words were foreign and not from his own mouth, and it was compounded by the strange look he received from the woman.
Probably not a common question, because she seemed to hesitate for a few moments. The broom handle swapped hands twice, the grip on it firm. “The exit is over there.” She pointed to the exact archway he entered through twice now.
There was no secret entrance nor exit he happened to miss. It was the same red-and-yellow gate just past the tree and past the man that still stood there at its base. She really couldn’t offer him any other assistance—her strange look even morphed into something of a spook that Chuuya’s confusion about where he was was genuine. It could’ve been that he was so deep in prayer that he found himself lost in that higher plane of existence in his failed attempt to meet with the entity that watched over this place. He blinked a few times, even rubbed his eyes just in case he happened to still be sitting before the guardian’s statue. Imagining all of this like the first time he came here in the evening. He noticed the garden no longer looked stepped on with his shoeprints embedded in soil and squished flowers.
He peered past the woman and through the open halls of the temple. Its backend was still closed off. Mute, except for their conversation that died.
“Do you need help?” A voice spoke up from behind, startling Chuuya.
He spun around and found himself greeted by the still-as-a-statue man smiling down at him, hands clasped and hidden in oversized sleeves. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” the man parroted, looking amused by Chuuya’s predicament.
Chuuya scowled a little, ran a hand through his hair. “I’m lost.”
That made the amused look even worse. The man was holding back a fit of laughter judging by the way his shoulders shook with a barely contained snicker. It might’ve dawned on the man that it was an inappropriate reaction, as he quickly offered a sympathetic smile. But make no mistake, he was still entertained, Chuuya saw it in the faint crinkling of his eyes. He looked a lot more youthful like that, somehow going from the appearance of around Chuuya’s age to a mischievous teen. Could’ve fooled him. The man didn’t act like an adult.
Arm’s length distance between them, Chuuya could smell a faint but familiar floral aroma on the man.
“The exit is over there.” Was repeated and once again pointed to, at the gate.
Chuuya opened his mouth to say something, decided against it when he shook his head. He turned back to face the woman. “Who’s this guy?”
“Who?” she asked with widened eyes, tightening and untightening her hold on the broom, digging nails into its wood handle.
When he peered over his shoulder, nothing. An empty space where the man once stood, floral aroma gone with him. He sucked in a deep breath, cleared his thoughts of the mind-tricking paranoia. The doubt starting to take root. “…Never mind. Thanks,” he muttered, walking back to the entrance.
The sun was high in the sky and warming his face. Wherever the fog came from, it was nowhere to be found. Not even a trace of it remained when Chuuya stood near a cliff and looked out at the trees below obscuring ground from view. He kicked a pebble off the edge, waited for it to make some sort of sound that never happened. Some nearby leaves rustled with awakening life and birds scattering, else this could’ve been a polaroid snapshot of a great view described as my day out at a shrine, hope I don’t get possessed.
He took the only way down again, down the same path as all the other times, past all the peekaboo statues forever and ever watching in silence. This time he did go through the paper charm hall. Except the end was whited out, the cherry blossom trees were missing, and he stepped into fog on the other side. It was a little dewy the farther into its depths he walked, tickling his cheeks with moisture. No rational thought came to his mind, just the frantic need to keep calm, take a few breaths, and keep forward. Kept reminding himself that there was only one way to go, wherever it was taking him. The path started to curve rather than go straight down, and he found himself back at the starting point submerged in fog.
Chuuya ran toward the temple. The maiden was gone. The garden was ruined once more.
“You’re back?” A voice called out from a distance, making Chuuya turn around to look for its source.
It was the man, Chuuya remembered, but he couldn’t see him. He looked from side to side, took a few careful steps down the temple stairs onto the walkway. There were a lot of things that never made sense at this place of worship: such as the insistence that it was cursed yet protected by the guardian’s blessing, the corridor of paper charms and unfulfilled wishes rippling in the wind, the caretaker that barely seemed to register where she was and her purpose aside from keeping the grounds looking pretty and maintained.
Like it wasn’t abandoned and erased from memory.
Also, that every time Chuuya’s come here, he’s never seen the same face.
Superstition was supposed to remain just that. It was hard to ignore when he’d made the trek to this shrine so many times in the past without fail—through all the seasons, between combing petals out of his hair and shaking rain and snow out. Of all the versions he recalled hearing about this place and the restless spirit, none of them mentioned wading through the waters of insanity until it was up to his neck, mouth, reaching his nose. Pulling him under. But an accurate story could never, would never be told because it never came from someone who lived to tell the tale. Name after name and none of them were familiar. They seemed real, but something was wrong. It was all wrong.
Cursed? Or maybe it was the entire world that was cursed? It was such a precarious place balancing on a blade’s edge, after all. It was all cursed in the end. One person’s idea of cursed was different from another’s. For instance, the man-eating kitsune dating back to ancient times. Thinking about this stuff was going to give him insight into that little flickering light hidden in all human beings and their penchant for storytelling. Like how maybe the people of the local village tried to build something new, something different here. And how the rest of the world didn't like it, so they came and ended it. Spread bad rumors for good measure to keep people out.
“Up here!”
Following the direction of the voice led Chuuya to the tree in the middle. When he glanced up, he couldn’t see past more than a few branchfuls. It was all cloud, all leaves. There was a laugh among them that carried down to the ground.
Chuuya heaved a sigh, continued searching for the invisible body that still did not make itself known. “Look, I need to get out of here.” Get the hell out of here. But something told him to suppress any sort of panic, ignore the lizard brain urge to run, run, run, never look back, cut through the tree overgrowth if you must. Anything to leave because he needed to correct one of his assumptions: this man was the only other person he’d seen more than once. The disappearing-act maiden did not count.
Some branches creaked; a few twigs snapped. A flicker of a navy-blue haori before the man appeared in Chuuya’s vision, perched on one of the lower branches.
“I already told you where the exit was,” the man said as he kicked his legs in the air.
His brain sent the signal to his lips to speak but they refused the order. Something paralyzing them? Chuuya’s pretty sure it had something to do with the unblinking gaze boring into him. It was very patient in waiting for him to talk, like they had all the time in the world and the only proof of its passage was the continuous rolling of the fog.
Spoken as if the man was trying to put a spell on him.
There was a heartbeat’s worth where the panic evaporated and all Chuuya felt was petal-soft caress meant to comfort him.
It broke when Chuuya gritted his teeth and snapped back in response, “Can you just tell me how I can fucking leave?”
“What’s the rush?”