In the northernmost province of Mutsu, just southeast of the turmoulic channel that bridges the east and west ocean, is a stretch of mountains that shields the people of Hondo, the mainland, from the freezing winds that billow from the endless Northern Storm raging on the isolated island of Yezochi. But rather than regard the mountains with reverence and gratitude, the villagers at its base treat it cautiously and avoid venturing too close. It is believed that deep within, hidden among the treacherous rocky passages, are villages of half-yokai, descendants from the migrants of Yezochi — the Outsiders. Wary of its presence, the people living at the mountain’s base are especially cautious of strangers.
It so happened that I was collecting supplies in one such small town when I happened upon a merchant boy surrounded by a feverish crowd. His cart bore meat and leathers, which the villagers greedily purchased with rice, wheat, and other trades. I wouldn’t have thought it particularly noteworthy were it not for the haste of the buyers and the sour expressions they wore. One who works closely with death is forever tainted by its filth, regardless how coveted their wares. By the end of the frenzy, there was not a scrap left to be sold and with a cart full of new goods, the boy quickly left town. Now by himself, I could clearly see his warm red hair and the old scars on his young body.
I hoped that was the last I’d ever see of that boy, but fate is not often so kind. Later than evening, as I made my own departure from the village, I heard distant shouts and screams emerging from the forest leading towards the mountains. Approaching the commotion, I discovered the red haired boy curled up in the mud, shielding his head from an ambush of other children, an onslaught of sharp stones and insults.
Dirty. Unclean. Tainted. Ogre. Monster. Demon. Outsider. They chanted spells at him, crude wards for evil spirits, demanding he die. As one brandished a dull carving knife, I could stand by no longer.
A roar pierced the air that froze the children like stone. From the trees rushed a young woman, her eyes blazing in rage and her long crimson hair whipping behind like fire. She threw wild mushrooms at the children, commanding them yield. In sheer terror, they scrambled away, screaming back towards their homes. As she reached the clearing, the girl’s fury subsided to sorrow as she gingerly tended to the boy, his arms and face covered in dark bruises and fresh blood. With nothing else to offer, I collected the mushrooms she threw and returned them to her sackel. Naturally, she eyed me with intense suspicion.
“Why do you do this, traveler?” she demanded. “We are Outsiders, descended from Yezochi. Leave us be, for your sake as well as ours.”
Wordlessly, I lifted the brim of my hat and briefly, in her large eyes, saw the reflection of my own blood-red pupils. It was somewhat rude of me but I couldn’t help but find her pure bewilderment utterly amusing. Perhaps it was the combination of emotions in her eyes — fear, confusion, anger, awe, sadness, love — that permanently painted her in my memory. I never saw that girl or her brother again, although after these many years I can recall her face more clearly than my own.
It’s rare indeed to find an Outsider freely roaming across the country but in truth, there’s not much difference between one of Yezochi and one of Hondo. My father taught me how to hide myself, and his father before him. Over time, we who descended from the north grew a knack for hiding; but the shadows are just as cold as the storm of the north. As I draw now my last few breaths, I find comfort in that old encounter — That even if only by one, I was seen as I truly am.
Night blooming flower,
How you shiver in the cold.
Scarlet moist with dew,
As I brush away the snow,
As I freeze alongside you.
Douglas Rysdyk 