Takeo stood at the top of the rice terraces watching his mother and sisters wade through the ankle-high water, shoving green rice-seedlings into the mud in neat rows. From his vantage point, he could see the whole village, its thatched-roof huts scattered haphazardly along both sides of the stream that wound lazily through the valley, sheltered on three sides by mountains and dark pine forest. The summer sun beat down on his head, cicadas droned in his ears, and while the rest of the village planted the rice necessary for their survival, Takeo swung his bamboo stick at imaginary enemies and dreamed that he was a samurai.
A distant bark interrupted him. Pausing, the boy turned, gazing down the hill as a streak of orange darted across the paddy bank, heading for the storehouse at the edge of the forest. Two village dogs, lean and mangy with curly tails, followed at its heels. The orange-and-white creature reached the storehouse and squeezed into the narrow gap between the floor and the ground, barely outpacing the dogs, who howled and dug frantically at the spot where their quarry had vanished.
Takeo sprinted down the hill, crossed the narrow berm between two paddies, and jogged toward the storehouse. The dogs were still worrying the same spot when he approached, bamboo stick held in both hands like a sword.
“Hey!” he shouted, over the din of snarls and scrabbling claws. “Stop it!”
The smaller dog put its ears back and slunk off without hesitation. The larger one, a big brown-and-white cur with a blocky muzzle, lowered its head and growled, showing sharp yellow teeth. Takeo stood his ground. Meeting the creature’s flat glare, he stepped forward, raising his bamboo sword over his head. The dog’s growls grew louder. Its lean body tensed, either to attack or flee. Takeo took a deep breath, tightening his grip on his weapon.
“Get out of here!” he bellowed, and lunged forward, sweeping the rod down like he was slicing something’s head from its body. The dog leaped backward, and with a last defiant snarl, turned and fled, vanishing around the storeroom wall and out of sight.
Triumphant, Takeo lowered his stick, then walked to the hole the dogs had been pawing at. Dropping to his knees, he put his head to the dirt and peered inside.
In the shadows beneath the storehouse, two golden eyes stared back. Takeo could just make out the pointed muzzle and lean orange body of a fox, white-tipped tail curled around itself in fear. When it saw him, it trembled and pushed itself farther back into the hole, making itself as small as it could.
Takeo smiled. “Hello,” he said softly, and the fox’s long black ears twitched at the sound of his voice. “You don’t have to be scared of me; I won’t tell anyone.” He glanced over his shoulder, making sure no grown-up would see him and wonder what he was doing. If anyone discovered the fox, they would kill it. Takeo knew the stories. He knew what kitsune, the wild foxes of the forest, were capable of. Kitsune could possess the weak, slipping under someone’s fingernails to take control of their body. They could make you see things that weren’t there. Sometimes, if the fox was strong enough, it could change its shape and become human, appearing as a beautiful mortal in order to lead the faithful astray.
But the creature cringing in the dirt under the storehouse didn’t look evil or malicious or conniving. It just looked scared. “It’s all right,” the boy murmured. “A dog bit me when I was a baby, so I don’t like them, either.”
The fox tilted its head, an eerie intelligence shining from its amber gaze, as if it were trying to understand. Takeo smiled and scooted back on his knees. “You don’t have to come out,” he said to the hole. “I’ll make sure the dogs don’t come sniffing around again. You can leave when it’s safe. But if you want to go now, I won’t stop you.”
He backed up a safe distance and watched the storehouse. For a few heartbeats, nothing happened. Then a narrow muzzle peeked out of the opening, gazing warily around. As the fox looked at him and froze, Takeo held himself very still, trying to be as unthreatening as possible. For just a moment, their gazes met, child and kitsune. Then, in a streak of orange and white, the fox zipped out of the hole, darting across the field to the edge the forest.
At the edge of the woods, it paused, looking back once. Takeo saw the flash of golden eyes as the kitsune’s gaze found him again. With a faint smile, he put his arms to his sides and bowed, like a samurai would when saying farewell to a guest.
The fox blinked, cocking its head again in that surreally intelligent fashion. Then, with a twitch of its tail, it turned and ghosted into the trees, vanishing as if it had never been there at all.
Takeo never saw the fox again. But sometimes, on warm evenings when he was outside, he could almost imagine he was being watched.
The seasons passed. Summer turned to autumn, which faded to winter, which eventually gave way to spring. The cycle of planting, harvest, and death continued, as it had for hundreds of years. Takeo grew into a young man, broad shouldered and tall, hands calloused from years of work in the field. Childhood fantasies of becoming a samurai were replaced by the daily struggles of farming: tending the fields, nurturing the seedlings, and most importantly, making sure the village had enough food to live on after the daimyo’s men arrived for the rice tax every fall. As the only son of the village headman, he knew that the responsibility of protecting and providing for the village would soon fall to him.
The autumn of Takeo’s seventeenth year was brutal. Drought took the valley; the rains of the wet season stubbornly refused to come. The rice withered in the fields, bright green shoots turning an ominous yellow, until the villagers worried that not only would they be unable to pay the rice tax at the end of the season, but that they all might starve the following winter.
In desperation, Takeo decided that he should take an offering to the shrine of Inari, the god of rice, at the top of the mountain and beseech the great kami to save his village. He had nothing of value himself, so for three nights, he went without rice to save enough of the precious resource to make an offering. On the morning of his third day without food, he accepted a bag of uncooked rice from his little sister, Hitomi, and entered the forest.
The climb to the top of the mountain was steep and unforgiving, and by the time Takeo reached the small wooden shrine at the top of the steps, flanked by mossy statues of Inari’s kitsune messengers, he was trembling. Setting the little bag of rice beneath the prayer rope across the entrance, he fell to his knees and pressed his face to the ground in supplication.
“Great Inari,” he murmured, feeling the eyes of the stone foxes on his back, “please forgive this intrusion into your affairs. My name is Takeo, and I am nothing—a humble farmer who does not deserve your thoughts or compassion. But I beg that you hear this plea: my village is in danger of starving. With the drought, we will not have enough rice for the daimyo’s men when they come to collect it. My father, the headman, will be severely punished if we cannot pay the tax. If you can hear this worthless man’s plea, please take pity on us. I would offer my own life for my village, if that is what you desire.”
The forest around him was silent. The kitsune statues gazed at him with empty stone eyes, unmoving and impassive. But Takeo, with his face still pressed to the cold steps, suddenly felt like he was being watched. It was not unlike those times when, as a child, he could sense he was not alone. For a moment, he was certain that Inari had heard his request and had come for him, to take his life as he had offered. If that is what it takes, he thought. If it will save my village, I am willing to exchange my life for theirs.
But several heartbeats passed, and nothing happened. No kami stepped out of the shrine in a blaze of light and thunder, demanding his life. The feeling of being watched faded away, leaving Takeo kneeling on the steps, alone.
Shivering, he sat up, feeling the ground sway beneath him as he raised his head. Three days with almost no food, combined with the long hike up the mountain, was finally taking its toll. Forcing himself upright, Takeo staggered from the shrine, but a wave of dizziness struck him as he was walking down the steps, and the last thing he remembered was falling.
He awoke to darkness, except for a soft orange glow somewhere to his left: a brazier that flickered with dying coals. He was warm, lying on his back on something soft, and there was a blanket draped over him that smelled faintly of leaves. Turning his head, he met the concerned gaze of a young woman kneeling beside his mattress, and he drew in a sharp breath.
The girl blinked at him. She was, Takeo noticed after his initial shock, beautiful, with luminous dark eyes and straight black hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of ink. Her robes were very fine: deep red patterned with threads of silver, with tiny leaves flitting playfully across the fabric. They were perhaps the same age, but there the similarities ended. She looked poised and elegant and lovely, and Takeo was suddenly all too aware of his grubby appearance, his simple farmer’s clothing, and work-calloused hands.
“Forgive me.” Her voice was a caress, the murmur of wind through the branches. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” She tilted her head, and for a split second, to Takeo’s sleep-addled mind, her eyes seemed to flash gold in the darkness. “How are you feeling?”
“I . . .” Takeo pressed a palm to his forehead, trying to recall what had happened. “Where am I?” he muttered.
“My family’s home.” The girl shifted closer, gazing down at him like she would at a curious bug. “We found you lying on the steps to the Inari shrine and brought you here. Are you all right? Are you sick?”
Carefully, Takeo sat up, wincing as the room spun a bit. “No, I’m fine. Thank you, my lady.” He avoided looking at her face, keeping his gaze on the blankets beneath him. He had never seen this girl and had no knowledge of any family living in the mountains close to the shrine, but from her appearance she was obviously the daughter of an important house. Perhaps even a samurai or noble family. He was unfit to gaze at such loveliness.
The door panel slid open, and a woman entered the room. Like the girl, she was poised and elegant, her raven-wing hair styled atop her head, speared in place with sticks of ivory. Her robe was the green of pine forests with blood-red berries climbing up the sleeves.
“Ah, you’re awake.” Takeo shivered as her voice rippled over him like a cool mountain spring. “Welcome, stranger, to our home. I am Miyazawa Atsuko, and this is my daughter, Yuki.” She waved an elegant hand at the girl, who was still watching Takeo with a curious, bright-eyed stare. “Please make yourself comfortable. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”
“I . . .” Takeo had no clue what to say in return. He had no business being a guest in such an important household. “I thank you for your kindness,” he finally managed “But I wouldn’t want to trouble you.” Or soil your lovely home with my presence. Why would they bother with one such as I?
“It is no trouble,” the lady said calmly, and inclined her head toward the girl. “Yuki insisted upon bringing you here, and our home is large, but we don’t get many visitors.” She drew back a step, and the light from the brazier flickered orange through her eyes. “Dinner will be served in the main hall. Consider this an invitation to join us. Yuki can show you the way.”
She drew back a few more steps and slid the panel shut, leaving Takeo alone again with the girl.
Takeo squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, feeling like cobwebs had settled in his brain. Thoughts came sluggishly, and with a faint, underlying sense of unease: a feeling that something wasn’t right, that he was missing something important. But when he opened his eyes and met Yuki’s lovely smile, everything else faded away. She could charm bears with that smile, Takeo thought. If he were a bear, he would lie down with his head in her lap and not move until the hunters came for him.
Abruptly, he realized he was staring, and dropped his gaze, angry that he could be thinking such things. “Is it . . . really all right that I’m here?” he asked. “I truly do not wish to trouble your family—”
A soft brush on his arm almost made his heart stop. For a moment, he stared at the delicate white fingers on his wrist, hardly believing they were there, that someone of her beauty would deign to touch someone like him. “Of course, Takeo-san,” Yuki said, as warmth spread up his arm and settled in his stomach. “You are always welcome here. Never doubt that. Now, come on.” She rose with an easy grace and grinned down at him. “Let’s go get dinner, before my rude, insufferable brothers start without us.”
As Takeo stood and followed the girl into the long, dimly lit halls beyond his room, he had the faint, passing realization that he had never told her his name.
The Miyazawa home was indeed very fine: passageways of dark, polished wood flanked by painted shoji panels depicting a variety of beautiful scenes—bamboo groves in the moonlight, tiny ponds with jeweled dragonflies on the water, giant maple trees mottled by the sun. Takeo tried very hard not to gape as Yuki led him into a massive hall of polished wood, the entrance guarded by two unsmiling statues. The ceiling soared above them, lit with thousands upon thousands of tiny paper lanterns, so many that it resembled the night sky.
A lacquered table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by cushions and a trio of seated nobility. Lady Miyazawa resided at the head of the table with her hands in her lap, looking serene. Two young men, both around Yuki and Takeo’s age, sat beside her at the corners. They glanced up as Takeo and Yuki came in, sharp eyes narrowed and appraising.
“This is him, Yuki-chan?” one of them said as Yuki knelt primly on a cushion. Takeo hovered behind her, uncertain of what to do, where to sit. The other young noble looked him up and down, before breaking into a wicked smile. “He looks like they all do. Just another bumbling, clueless hum . . . er, peasant. What’s so special about him?”
“Aki-kun.” Yuki scowled at her sibling. “We talked about this. Be polite.” Turning to Takeo, she smiled and gestured to the cushion beside her. “Please excuse my brother, Takeo-san,” she said. “As I mentioned before, they’re rude and boorish and unfit for civilized company. Feel free to ignore anything they say. Please”—she patted the cushion again—“please, sit.”
In a daze, Takeo sat, feeling like a stray dog sniffing around the table for scraps. But then Yuki gave him that smile that turned his stomach inside out, and everything else was forgotten.
The meal was excellent, though later that evening, Takeo would be hard-pressed to remember exactly what he’d eaten. Servants delivered steaming, colorful dishes to the table and vanished without a sound. Yuki’s brothers had almost seemed to fight over the food, snatching dishes away from each other, on the verge of an all-out brawl until a sharp word from Lady Miyazawa stopped them. If Takeo had been paying more attention, he might have thought it strange, but his mind was not on food or Yuki’s brothers, or even the dark gaze of Lady Miyazawa, who watched him across the table. It was only on Yuki. She was beautiful, gracious, and extremely curious about him and his life in the village.
“What about family?” Yuki asked, after a quick, somewhat disgusted glare at her brothers, who appeared to be in an argument over the last fish. “Do you have any siblings, Takeo-san? “
He nodded. “Two older sisters,” he replied. “They’re both married now. I don’t have any brothers, but I do have a younger sister, Hitomi. She’ll be five this . . .”
Hitomi. Memories flooded in, breaking the surreal, dreamlike haze of the moment. He remembered his little sister that morning, solemnly handing him the precious bag of rice to take to the shrine. The grave look of his father as he stared out over the dying fields. The daimyo’s men will be coming soon. Perhaps they are already there. My village is still in danger.
“I’m sorry.” Swiftly, Takeo rose, causing all four nobles to glance up at him. “Please forgive my rudeness,” he said, bowing as Lady Miyazawa’s gaze fixed on him. “Your kindness has been overwhelming, but I must go home, back to the village. My family needs me.”
“No,” Yuki said, standing up as well. Her dark eyes were wide with alarm. “Takeo-san, don’t leave. Stay here, just a little longer.”
“I’m sorry, Yuki-san,” Takeo said again, though a stab of pain went through him as he met her eyes. “I wish I could stay, I really do. But this year has been bad for my village. With the drought, we’ll be unable to pay the rice tax when the daimyo’s men come. My father is the headman, so he and my family will be punished if we can’t produce the rice. I must return; the tax collector will arrive any day now.”
Yuki looked stricken. She cast a desperate gaze toward Lady Miyazawa, but the lady of the house simply nodded and raised a hand to Takeo. “We understand, Takeo-san. Of course family should come first. Safe travels home.”
Yuki shook her head. “But—”
“Daughter.” The lady’s dark eyes fixed on the girl. “We cannot keep him here if he does not wish to stay.” Yuki started to protest, but Lady Miyazawa raised her voice. “Would you have him pine and worry for his village, and eventually come to resent us?”
Yuki slumped and dropped her gaze in defeat. Her shoulders trembled as she bowed her head, dark hair hiding her face.
“It was an honor to have you here, Takeo-san,” Lady Miyazawa continued, ignoring her daughter. “Safe travels to you on your way home. Yuki will show you out.”
Takeo trailed Yuki down the dim corridors in silence, looking up only when she pushed back a pair of magnificent red doors and stepped into a courtyard surrounded by bamboo. By the position of the moon overhead, it was late indeed. Cicadas hummed and fireflies bobbed past his head as the girl led him toward the gates. A pond with a stone lantern sat nearby, fat red-and-white fish swirling lazily beneath the waters.
At the gate, Yuki hesitated. The moonlight blazed down on her, making her glow like a yurei-ghost, beautiful and otherworldly. “Takeo-san . . . ,” she began, and stopped. For a moment, she stood there, gazing at her hands, as if struggling with herself. Finally, she took a deep breath and looked up again, her eyes shining like dark mirrors in the night.
“Do you—do you remember the day you saved a fox from a pair of village dogs?”
The question was so unexpected that at first Takeo could only blink at her. “I—I think so, Yuki-san,” he stammered. It had been such a long time ago, back when he was young and carefree, when the weight of the village and his family didn’t rest so heavily on his shoulders. Back when he could still pretend he could become a samurai.
And then, the real implications of the question hit him hard, and a cold chill crept up his spine, raising the hairs on his neck. He’d told no one of that day or his actions. The only ones who knew he had rescued a fox from a gruesome death were himself, the dogs . . . and the fox itself.
Chilled, he looked at Yuki again, seeing her for the first time. He remembered, suddenly, the stories. Of kitsune, and what they could do: Change their shape. Appear human. Weave illusions until they blended so perfectly with reality that it was impossible to tell them apart. Yuki met his gaze, eyes glowing a subtle gold in the candlelight, the tip of a bushy tail peeking behind her robes.
“Don’t be afraid,” Yuki said quietly as Takeo stood there, frozen in shock. “I would never hurt you, Takeo-san. After you saved me that day, I wanted to repay your kindness, to thank you, but there was never a good time. Your people would have chased me off or killed me if I got too close. So, I waited, and watched you from afar. I watched you grow from a cub into the man you are now, and . . .” She paused, and Takeo thought he saw a faint pink glow touch her cheeks. “My feelings for you grew, as well.”
“Yuki-san.” Takeo breathed, feeling like he was balanced on the edge of a cliff; he could choose to step back, to safety, or take the plunge. She was a fox, his brain told him. A kitsune. Not human. But gazing into her face, he saw no trace of the guile, deceit, or craftiness attributed to her kind. What he did see was an emotion so pure and genuine it made his breath catch and nearly stopped his heart.
“I know you have to go back,” Yuki said softly. “I know how much you care for your family. But . . . I can help you, Takeo-san. I can save your village. If you’ll let me.”
Accepting help from a kitsune was a fool’s errand. He knew this. But, his family . . . “How?” he whispered.
“You need rice for the . . . tax collector, yes?” The girl tilted her head, her smooth brow furrowed. “I’ve seen them: men on horseback come every season, and they take baskets of rice with them when they leave. This is something you must let them do?”
“Yes,” Takeo answered. “The land isn’t ours; we simply farm it for the daimyo, our ruling lord. If we don’t pay the tax, the whole village will be punished.”
Yuki blinked slowly, as if such a concept was completely foreign to her, but asked: “How much do you need?”
“How—how much rice?” Takeo stammered, and Yuki nodded gravely. “At least five hundred koku, more if we had an exceptional harvest.” Yuki looked faintly confused, so he hurried to explain. “Sixty percent of our crops go to the daimyo every year, but we have to at least produce the five hundred koku to meet the minimum quota. But this year we’re short by nearly two hundred koku, and that’s if we give them everything and have nothing left to get us through the winter.”
The girl pondered this for a moment. Finally, she raised her head, a dark, determined look in her eyes. “I can give you what you need,” she said.
Takeo’s heart leaped in his chest. “You—you can? How?”
“I am kitsune, Takeo-san.” Yuki’s lips quirked slightly. “We have our ways. My family and I built an estate from nothing in the middle of nowhere. Two hundred koku of rice should not be difficult to produce.
“But,” she added as Takeo contemplated throwing himself to the ground at her feet, “if you wish my help, there is one condition I fear I must ask.”
“Anything,” Takeo husked. “I don’t have much, but if you can save my village, anything in my power to give is yours. What is it you want, Yuki-san?”
“A promise.” The kitsune stared at him, and for a moment, he saw the shadow of a fox, gold-eyed and intelligent, in her gaze. “After the rice is delivered and the daimyo’s men are gone, you must return and live with us for one year. That is the price for a kitsune’s intervention. I want you to promise me that you’ll come back, that you’ll see me again.”
Takeo’s stomach dropped. Live with foxes? For a year? Some of his anguish must have shown on his face, for Yuki’s eyes darkened and she regarded him solemnly. “Would it really be that bad, Takeo-san?” she asked quietly. “You would be an honored guest here. I promise you will want for nothing. You can leave behind the toil and hardships of a mortal life.” Her voice softened as she dropped her gaze to the floor. “And perhaps, in time, you will come to see me as more than just a fox.”
“I already do,” Takeo whispered, surprising himself as well as Yuki. She raised her head, eyes shining with hope, and he swallowed hard. “Yuki-san, you’ve shown me kindness when most would’ve seen a worthless farmer. You took me into your home and treated me not as a peasant, but as a guest. I can’t promise I’ll be able to—to return your feelings, but I can agree to return. After the rice is delivered and my village is safe, I’ll come back. I promise.”
Yuki smiled then, and it seemed to banish the shadows from the forest. “One more night,” she whispered, holding out her hand. “Stay with me for one more night. Return to your village tomorrow; the rice will be ready when you wake up.”
The bamboo around them seemed to sway, the fireflies blurring and becoming hazy balls of light. Takeo nodded, stepped forward, and placed his palm in hers.
The night passed in a fluttering of memories, like the fragile beat of a moth’s wing. The dim glow of brazier. The feel of silk, sliding over bare skin. Being wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and darkness, the taste of sake and sweat on his lips, and the glow of a fire in the pit of his stomach. Gazing into the eyes of a girl and wishing that, be it illusion or fantasy, he would never wake, and the night would go on forever.
He awoke cold and shivering on a bare wood floor, a ratty blanket draped over him. Confused, he raised his head, gazing around the abandoned shell of a tiny wooden hut. Rotting beams and timbers leaned precariously against the walls, and weeds poked up through the floorboards, eating away at the wood. Takeo saw the bones of many small animals lying in corners or scattered among leaves and refuse, and tufts of reddish fur clung to everything.
In a daze, he staggered from the ruin, finding a game trail that snaked through the forest. Staggering from the trees, he blinked in shock. He was back on the road that led to the shrine, and a horse and wagon stood waiting for him at the edge, the back of the cart laden with reed baskets. A quick peek inside revealed they were full to bursting with gleaming white grains. Takeo felt his heart swell, the tension in his stomach releasing in a rush.
Thank you, Yuki-san, he thought, closing his eyes. I’ll see you again soon, I promise.
But when he arrived at the village late that afternoon, he knew something was wrong. A group of samurai on horseback clustered in front of his hut, their kimono bearing the mon-crest of the daimyo. The villagers stood silently nearby as one man, who Takeo recognized as the chief tax collector, loomed over the hunched form of his father, who knelt before him with his face pressed to the ground. An icy spear lanced through Takeo, and he urged the horse to move faster.
“A disgrace!” the tax collector was shouting, his high, shrill voice carrying over the wind. He held a bamboo rod in one hand and was waving it as though he might strike any who got too close. “Lazy, undisciplined, good-for-nothing peasants! How dare you offer this pitiful bounty to your most gracious lord! This insult will not go unpunished.”
“Wait!” Takeo called, driving the wagon up to the startled tax collector. Leaping from the cart, he hurried over and prostrated himself beside his father. “Please forgive me,” he said, feeling cold dirt pressing against his forehead. “But I have the rest. Of the rice. It’s all there.”
“What trickery is this?” The chief tax collector eyed him suspiciously, then turned his gaze to the wagon. “What have you worthless peasants been doing? Search the cart,” he ordered, and one of the waiting samurai immediately strode up to the wagon, tearing off basket lids. Takeo waited, heart pounding, until the samurai grunted and stepped back.
“It’s all here, sir,” the warrior confirmed.
“I see.” Far from being pleased, the tax collector’s voice was ugly. He took a step toward Takeo, his fine hakama-trousers swishing over the dirt. “I know what is going on here,” he continued harshly. “I’ve seen it before. You farmers have another field, don’t you? A hidden field, where you grow rice on the side. Denying your lord his fair share, you worthless, ungrateful thieves.”
Takeo’s blood ran cold. “No,” he protested, forgetting himself and glancing up at the collector. “That’s not true!”
“Really?” The man bent down, glaring at him with cold black eyes. “Then where did you get this rice, peasant? It obviously did not come from these fields.”
“I— It was given to me,” Takeo stammered, not knowing what else to say. “In the forest. A gift from Inari himself.”
A resounding blow rocked his head to the side, laying him out in the dirt. “Liar!” the collector snarled, striking him again with his bamboo rod. “Ungrateful wretch. You peasants have been lying to us, hiding a portion of the crops for yourselves. That is a crime against your benevolent lord. I should execute the lot of you for treason!”
Takeo’s head was spinning, and something warm was trickling into his ear. He was vaguely aware of his father, pleading with the collector, begging for mercy. “He is but a boy,” he heard him say. “He didn’t know what he was doing. Forgive him. Punish me for this transgression.”
No, Takeo thought, trying to struggle upright. The ground swayed beneath him, and he gritted his teeth to keep from falling. Not my family. This isn’t their fault.
The collector sneered. “Get him up,” he ordered, and two samurai grabbed Takeo under the arms, yanking him upright, and setting him on his knees. Shivering, Takeo looked up and met the pitiless glare of the other man, who handed his bamboo rod to a samurai before drawing his sword. It hissed as it was unsheathed, a curved ribbon of gleaming metal that caught the sunlight.
“We will take the rice,” the collector said, speaking to Takeo’s father, who still knelt in the dirt, his shoulders trembling with quiet sobs. “But this crime against the daimyo will not go unpunished. Let this be a lesson to you. The next time, this whole disgusting village will be razed and burned to the ground. Be grateful for that mercy, or you will all end up like this.”
Takeo blinked blood from his eyes and looked past the collector to where his mother and Hitomi stood in the doorway of their home. His mother wept loudly, and Hitomi stared out at him with huge, tear-filled eyes. He tried to smile at her. She, at least, was safe, he tried to tell himself. His family and his village were safe. That was all that mattered.
Yuki, he thought, remembering the warm glow of a brazier, the hiss of silk over skin. I’m sorry. I wish I could have returned, to see you one more time.
Then the blade sliced down across his neck, and the keening cry of a fox echoed over the trees.
Hironobu Ichiro, official tax collector for the daimyo of the Hida province, was feeling rather smug as he rode back through the forest. True, the drought that year had been hard, but he had still been able to procure more than half the expected taxes for the daimyo. This was more rice than his lord had estimated he would receive, and he would surely reward Hironobu for his efforts.
A breeze rustled the branches of the trees, and Hironobu’s mount snorted and half reared, almost throwing him from the saddle. The rest of the samurai’s horses, too, began to buck, and the men struggled to calm them. Hironobu cursed and yanked on the reins, bringing the beast to a shuddering halt.
A girl stood in the middle of the trail, long hair rippling in the dying wind. Her eyes flickered in the shadows of the forest, glowing like twin candles. As Hironobu straightened, ready to demand what she was doing, the branches of the trees began to shake. The sunlight disappeared, vanishing behind clouds, and the shadows of the forest began to lengthen, closing around men and horses like the talons of a monstrous beast.
Hironobu’s party never returned to the daimyo. A search party found them weeks later, lying stiff and broken at the base of a cliff, entangled with their mounts as if their horses had fled in blind terror. The rice cart had also been smashed in the fall, and grains were scattered everywhere, mixed with the blood of the samurai.
Hironobu Ichiro’s body was not among them.
One year later, a man stumbled out of the forest near the base of the mountains. He was naked, filthy, and utterly, raving mad. When he spoke, he screamed and cried about demons in the forest, ghosts and spirits and all manner of terrible beasts, and a girl. A girl who haunted his steps, who followed him wherever he went, her eyes the yellow of candlelight. He was put to death, more out of pity than anything else, but the story of the girl in the forest spread throughout the province. Finally, the daimyo himself sent a unit of men to investigate, and only one returned, babbling of ghosts, a cursed forest, and a girl with glowing eyes watching them through the trees. Unwilling to risk more samurai and further insult to whatever vengeful ghosts haunted the woods, the daimyo forbade travel through that part of the forest and posted signs at the entrance, proclaiming the area cursed. The village at the base of the mountain was given up for lost and didn’t see the shadow of a samurai or tax collector for years after the daimyo’s death.
The son of the headman was buried without ceremony in the graveyard at the edge of the village. On clear, full nights, if one happens to look in that direction, one might glimpse a figure standing at the headstone. Some have seen a girl. Others have seen a small orange fox. And, on rare occasions, a small boy has been seen at the gravesite as well, his eyes the yellow gold of candlelight.