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What a heavy downpour! Sakashita grumbles underneath his breath as he adjusts his umbrella. A red hue, it bobs among the sea of bamboo and washi; swaying and churned by the movements of the crowd in the familiar song of the everyday. Complaints about work. Laughter from the lit izakayas. Rumors and chitter-chatter that circulate amongst the crowds freely as the raindrops.
Accompanied by the pungent scents wafting from the shops, it all causes Sakashita’s stomach to rumble, time and age having begun to take its toll for the day.
From time to time, Sakashita adjusts his grip, his footfalls sounding below upon the paved path home. He would need to replace it soon. The wood is worn.
“Have you heard of the ghost? The woman who wanders the samurai district?” the voices nearby murmur, both that of young men. Little more than idle talk between friends—busy street, they all cluster together as sardines in a school—it pricks at Sakashita’s ears. Habit of a guardsman as it were. “First, that strange merchant, and now this…perhaps this city is cursed. Have you hear of what occurred in the inner cha—“
A whoosh comes, barely audible above the rain. “Hush! Do you wish to die here?” The burly man jostles against his friend. “Keep those notions to yourself! It isn’t proper!”
And not the woman? Sakashita inwardly snorts. What of that one? Is it not improper to speak poorly of the dead?
The merchant too. Helpful and well-meaning as the Medicine Seller may be—had he not vouched for him? Placed his trust into that enigma of a huma—no, an inhuman thing?—that man’s true objectives remain shrouded still.
Protect the Ōoku? The people? Perhaps and most certainly. But what if their goals were to diverge then? What if it were impossible to save everything?
What then? Sakashita thinks, his steps quickening. Around him, the skies continue to pour, a rhythmic pitter-patter that assaults the swaying blooms overhead.
As it were now, however, it would be more proper to mete out punishment to these two simpletons, but why draw attention? There would be no use in lending any semblance of credibility to such a rumor regarding the Ōoku. Explosive as the occurrence of months prior and swiftly as the billow of words—from whom had notice of their lord’s newfound night terrors come?—a senior guardsman’s acknowledge would surely give cause!
And the deaths thus far…grievance may be had with both Lady Utayama and the elder Ōtomo, but even a cog must know when to halt its groaning lest the tower fall. For a place as treacherous as the Ōoku, only those that know their place remain: ever-vigilant, ever-fluid as the waves, ever-mindful of the currents and the creatures that inhabit it.
Shaking his head, Sakashita weaves through the crowd and turns ‘round the corner, broad frame thankfully ignored in the intensifying rain. Troublesome as Edo has become, the majority would prefer to make it home safely than to draw the eyes of a guard and incur a possible brand.
Moreover, the time.
Early as his next shift is, he needs to sleep. He needs to rest. Lie down and close his eyes for another restless night. Dinner? Lunch preparations for tomorrow? Hah! Late as his work releases him nowadays—no consideration for the weather!—and without a wife to return to, he would be blessed if there were even a meager snack to fill his bel—
Sakashita tenses as he passes the gate and soon the entrance, a near-inaudible thunk sounding behind him as the door shuts close. Old as he may be and even with the smell of rain, that aroma (that warmth) is unmistakable. How could it not be?
A starving man, after all, will always recognize salvation.
Damnation as well.
Even as his steps reverberate in the dark, pathways familiar as the blood in his own veins, Sakashita continues. In the distance, a dim light emanates from where the kitchen rests. His throat dries, irregardless of how he swallows, thinning spit no more useful than seawater for a farmer’s field. Having traded his umbrella earlier at the doorway—a dull thump akin to the exchange of coin—Sakashita’s calloused hands tremble as they settle on the hilt of his sword.
He needs to remain strong. Fearless.
For an intruder such as this, he mu—
“Welcome home, my lord.” The voice rings throughout the kitchen, and Sakashita starts, his sword flying from its sheath with a clink. “Must you be so wary of your wife?” The beautiful woman smiles, painted lips spreading as to reveal ash-dyed teeth. Her hazel gold eyes curve, twin crescents framed by the long ink of dusk. “Even if it is only for one night.”
“Y-yo—“
Black kimono sleeves fluttering in the glow of the andon, the woman waves toward the table where a number of dishes sit: bowls set with white rice, an assortment of seafoods ranging from salmon and octopus, tempura, plates of seasonal vegetables still steaming and set next to the teapot, the large pile of meat stacked on the porcelain plate in the center of the arrangement.
“Eat, my lord.” Are the eyes on her sleeve glaring? Sakashita blinks, refocusing his gaze. Bright red, the embroidery forms the appearance of stylized eyes, one for each sleeve. It feels as if they would bore holes into his skull, openings for which maggots would infest and make home. “It will grow cold otherwise. Will you disappoint your wife? After all her hard work? What a shameless man…”
“I”—Sakashita remains tense, sword drawn—“do not have a wife.”
Is this one of the Medicine Seller’s associates? No, couldn’t be. While there are a number of similarities—the markings, the penchant for rudeness and sudden appearances, little habits that cause Sakashita’s hackles to rise—the air is different. Rather than that of a merchant’s, it is that of a lady’s.
Reminiscent of Lady Utayama’s or one of the long-lived concubines of the upper echelons.
Full of authority, unyielding, self-assured that their methods (theirs and theirs alone) are correct.
Tilting her head back slightly, she smiles again, nonplussed. Her eyes meet his. Rimmed with safflower, makeup painted in a similar shade of scarlet to her almond-shaped nails, they remind him of a vulpine’s. Impudent and starkly contrasting with those adorning her sleeves—each a flawless gem inlaid into an unnaturally white, pretty porcelain.
If she were known, she would most assuredly be taken into the Ōoku for beauty alone.
“Are you certain?” She takes a step toward the table, and to Sakashita’s alarm, his body follows, fortunately stopping before his knees could meet the tatami mats. “Only a wife would prepare such a feast at this hour.” The woman clicks her tongue, ariose voice humming lightly after. “And moreover…you have grown so thin. Take better care of yourself. Women like a bit of fat, you know?” She hums again, considering. In the dim glow, her paleness rivals that of the moon above, fairness further emphasized by the blackened teeth and safflower red. “But not too much of course. A woman marries for both love and looks. A man should try his best just as his wife does.”
What nonsense! If it were not for circumstances, this spirit would have already lost her head!
“Are you thinking of something uncouth?” The woman turns, drawing closer. Her bare feet pad softly, noise drowned out by rush of rain outside. Around them, the chill swirls, fended off by the heat of their forms and the nearby food. “Shameless man…be gentler.”
Reaching forward, her index finger slide along the blade’s edge, heedless of the manner in which Sakashita stiffens and heedless of everything but her own whims.
Bloodless. Wholly bloodless.
As an active guard, one who has survived years with the Ōoku and its machinations, it would be impossible. It would be unfathomable for a guard to keep his sword du—
Her other hand comes to rest on Sakashita’s wrist, a terribly soft touch that drives Sakashita’s senses awry. Beautiful. Beguiling. It feels more like the caress of the afterlife—the fleeting dream absconding before sunrise— rather than a flesh-and-blood human’s. “Will you listen to me, my lord? I truly do want the best for you.”
Pull away. Pull away.
No matter how Sakashita’s mind screams, his hand remains transfixed, enfolded in hers like the petals of an unbloomed chrysanthemum. Upon him, those embroidered eyes peer, a horrible heat that threatens to engulf the self.
Pull away!
Applying the faintest bit of force, the woman turns the still-held blade and guides it.
Not to the throat but rather…back to its sheath in one smooth movement that inspires a feeling of déjà vu.
She tuts. “So stubborn…”
“Is that not what a guard should be?”
His mouth is parched. His heart pounds within his chest, a show of vibrant fireworks. The perspiration dribbles down his brow and onto his front.
Yet still, in front of the spirit, those words slip carelessly from Sakashita’s mouth.
And in return, the woman replies just as easily as if it were conversation about the weather and not delusion.
“Not for his wife.” Her hand cups his cheek, nails grazing lightly and warming the soaked flesh. “You should hold her in the highest regard, especially after a long day such as this.”
She motions to the table where the food lies, each dish still hot as the moment that Sakashita had stepped into the room.
“Just once. You do not even have to eat the meat if you so choose,” she murmurs, speech sweet as the finest of fruits. Her fingers intertwine with his and tug. Gentle yet firm. Below, those embroidered eyes—were they blinking?— sear their distaste into Sakashita’s very being. “Humor your wife for tonight. It will not be for long. I must return to my husband after all.”
Sakashita jolts. Though, their hands remain clasped, his sweaty and hers pristine.
“Your husband?”
The woman nods, fondness readily apparent in every syllable. “Yes. My husband.” She chuckles, her brow creasing briefly. Faintly, Sakashita feels the prick of another glare—of unseen animosity. “He is a rather jealous man. Exceedingly rude and critical. Prone to crypticness. Cold at times as well.”
Were these meant to be compliments? Beyond the tone, it sounds more like the complaints of a battered wife! An eyebrow rising, Sakashita frowns, a low thump sounding as his body seats itself before the table.
“And the protests! He always like to complain in that tone of his! Mild-mannered yet scathing!” She sighs, giggling quietly to herself as she takes the space across from Sakashita. “But that is what makes our relationship fun, isn’t it? And the kindness…so terribly kind to a fault. Why…I would have devoured him otherwise, wouldn’t have I?”
The ramblings of a mad spirit in Sakashita’s opinion! But what could he say really?
To voice his dissent now and anger a madwoman in the midst of her revelry? Foolishness! Unthinkable in his current circumstances.
Thus, Sakashita waits, his eyes flitting in search of an escape and occasionally drifting toward the center dish in natural human curiosity.
Perfectly prepared—even with the bans in place and his own adherence, he could recognize that much—the scent of cooked meat circles, intermingling with the sensations; of the pounding heart and beating rain; of the hunger that gnaws and urges, heightened by the allure of a pretty face.
Was it deer? Boar? By the texture and size, it couldn’t be a fowl. But still…the meat looks too soft to be game.
His eyes flicker back to that beautiful face—unnatural unnatural, ethereal.
Could it be? A spirit is a spirit, but surely, there must be limits to one’s impu—
“…but that is what I enjoy about him.” Turning her gaze back to Sakashita, the woman sighs once more, wistful. “It is a shame that we have been away from each other for so long. Duties”—she scowls, her lips twisting into a beastly expression that startles Sakashita—“as it were. As a trusted guard of the Ōoku, you must understand.”
“I…”
…do.
But how could he say that? Acknowledge it beyond the realms of the mind and the necessary?
Whatever the case, the woman continues, her grin widening as to reveal unusually sharp cuspids.
“Please eat. You must rest soon.”
Would eating have its consequences? The meat certainly—an upstanding law-abider, people describe, some from admiration and others of disgust—but what of everything else? He has heard of these tales, warnings of entrapment and punishment. What child (what man?) has not? To consume is to be bound.
As if aware of Sakashita’s thoughts, the woman elaborates.
“You will not be harmed. It is merely a wife’s offering to her lord. Be not wary, Lord Sakashita.” At his name, Sakashita chokes. However, the woman pays it no mind, instead preferring to make for the teapot as to serve Sakashita his cup. “But…if you so insist upon refusing your wife’s generosity, close your eyes and breathe.” She chuckles, a pleasing sound that paradoxically unnerves yet delights the senses. “It is only a dream after all.”
“Is it?”
The sweat on his brow and form of which the fabrics cling. The tremble of his fingers, each afflicted by that mix of chill and heat. The rumble of his stomach and the thundering rain.
The visage of the woman before him.
In what world would he, Sakashita, ever conceive of such a thing?
“Only if you so desire,” she replies. Her eyes shine with amusement. “Reality is what one makes of it. No more. No less. However…” The woman hums. “A wife must still fulfill her duties. Perhaps you will find a token of my affection in the morning.”
Should he? Before him, the woman sits, her expression akin to that of a fox’s. Victorious no matter the outcome.
At his expression, the woman continues, “Really, my lord. I would not lie to you. Your dutiful wife is ever here to attend to your needs.” She leans forward, the ink of her hair spilling onto the edges of the table. “Just for tonight until we both depart for the world beyond these walls once more.”
Should he? Should he?
What other choice is there?
Thus, after a few moments, Sakashita complies, a quiet whoosh escaping his dry lips soon after.
A dream. Just a dream.
That is what it must be.
And thus, when he opens his eyes once more, nothing but the ceiling greet him. Tangled together with his limbs, the futon’s coverings are soaked through with sweat. Outside the sounds of a dying storm echo, remnants upon remnants.
Yes…it must be a dream.
A consequence of unreasonable hours and of the recent nightmarish occurrences that plague Edo.
It must be.
Even as Sakashita prepares, exchanging his wear of the night before for new garments, and as he makes for the door, that is what he thinks.
What he must believe even as the scent of a freshly made and packed lunch emanates from the kitchen and silent laughter resounds.
Mocking. Playful. Sweetly intoxicating as the finest of alcohols.