Demon of the Mire

-1-

My swollen tongue slid over cracked lips. I snagged a thin layer of dead skin with my teeth and spit it out. It stung.

A slow river. A shrinking stream. A single drop. I longed for anything to quench my thirst, but scanning the downward path, I found nothing. This land I trod was drier than a sky serpent's shed scales.

The winding mountain path carried me through forested hills and turned out of sight. The sun's rays found a way to torture me, weaving through the branches, stalking me.

And then like an answer bestowed on me from the Ancestors, I beheld a pond.

My sigh of relief turned sour in a mere breath, spoiled by the stagnation. The stench of the water was far more pungent than cattle droppings. It was a cesspool of insectoid carousing, the kind that produced winged blood-suckers. The only water I had discovered in a day and a half was of course corrupted.

Out of habit, I clenched the hilt of my double-edged jian. My knuckles split and bled a little more.

Such is the life of a youxia, wandering evermore, forsaken by master, by clan, and even by nature herself.

The high pitched buzz of a large mosquito grated my ears. The mosquito landed in between the claw track scars that raked the side of my face and injected its needle nose. I slapped at it, expecting to find the mosquito flattened on my calloused palm. It eluded me.

I closed my eyes, breathing deep. The buzzing wavered like the unconfident erhu player I’d heard at the last wine house, whose unsteady bowing hand could not fiddle, and his stringing hand lacked the precision to finger a pure note. I almost sliced his instrument in half. Oh, what I’d give for a sip of fermented mijiu.

My jian flashed forward, then back into the sheath. The halved pieces of the bloodsucker drifted to the ground. I grinned. Sword mastery never died.

More buzzing droned and grew tenfold, as if the remaining mosquitoes sought vengeance for their fallen brother. They smelled life throbbing in my veins. I jogged along, not willing to give up any more blood to them.

The trees grew dense, though they were all but dead. Less and less light penetrated the old woods, despite the branches being bare, the bark cracked, like scabbed skin. I paid special attention so that my wooden clog sandals did not catch in the splits of the dirt road, for it would surely send me sprawling.

Further down the hill I came upon another putrid pool of stale water and another cloud of mosquitoes.

And that's when I heard it. The grave cry of a tortured, demonic soul whined like a squeaky wagon wheel on a rocky road.

“Yokai,” I growled. “But what kind of demon?”

The echoing screams of the spirit crawled over my neck and down my back. Waves of cold fear dashed against my confidence.

My hand instinctively clasped the jian hilt. An old proverb invaded my mind, compelling me to recite it. “To subdue the enemy without fighting is the peak of skill.” I quickened my steps until I was running downhill.

Though it was my way of life, the jian was not the answer to every conflict. Better to have no conflict at all. Especially when crossing the path of a wilderness yokai. Further down, I neared a third stagnant pool. I realized the pools were the remains of decomposing terraced rice paddy fields, clearly neglected for some time.

The further down I descended, the thicker the odor became. Each terrace pool was worse than the last, as if the liquid itself taunted me. Here water sat in abundance, yet undrinkable. My tongue shriveled like a sunbaked cherry.

Terraced rice fields were unforgiving work. It took diligence to simply sculpt the land, and after all that, you still needed the patience to wait weeks, even months for crops. I would never understand the life of a farmer. Putting all of their hope in the handle of a plow. It required too much wishful thinking. I’d rather rely on the rewards garnered by the edge of my blade.

My own years of training came to mind, the shaping I endured from childhood to maturity, sharpened into a weapon for my master. And then, in a moment, after one foolish mistake, all my favor fled, and my warrior title was stripped from me, replaced with nothing but shame.

All my years of shaping and service wasted.

Much like the remnants of the rice field. All this work to reshape the land ruined.

The demonic yokai screamed again, this time further in the distance, but no less menacing.

I made the mistake of glancing over my shoulder to check for the demon and my clog sandals sunk into a fissure on the path. I tumbled head over heels and rolled several times before coming to a stop on my back. Overhead the gray sky weighed down on me.

Laughter met my groaning. Squinting and bearing my teeth, I dared the laughter to fall on my ears again.

On a stump just off the beaten path sat a cross-legged bald monk. His fingers contorted, forming the Om chakra. He feigned meditation, but I could see the edges of his lips curling up as he stifled a snicker.

Rage compelled me to my feet. My jian jumped into my hand. “Mock me again, monk,” I rasped.

“You’re the one trying to take the easy, cursed path down the mountain. Serves you right. You should have known not to tempt the dorotabo.”

Dorotabo. The name of the muck yokai echoed in my mind. I had not given much thought as to what type of demon haunted the fields of the forest. Of course a demon of the mire was behind the rice field destruction. I wondered if the dorotabo manifested after good cropland had been laid to waste, or if the monster corrupted the land itself when it made the rice field its abode. Which came first, the dragon, or the hatchling egg?

“I did not know a curse resided on this land. I’m not from here,” I said.

“Obviously.”

I growled. “Grant me some water, monk.”

“I crave no earthly elements. I do not have what you seek.”

“I’m trying to find my way through to—”

The monk cut me off. “As long as your mind dwells on earthly things you cannot transcend beyond your mortal shell to find what you thirst for.” His nasally, enlightened words cut me to the quick. I did not want to admit he had uncovered the heart of my issue. Perhaps intuition informed him that as a wandering warrior, I was most likely a shameful youxia.

He chuckled.

“You laugh at my earthly plight from your high loft?”

“Humor is healing for the soul.”

“So my hurt is your humor,” I barked. “Let's see how fast you heal after my sword tastes your flesh.”

-2-

He dipped his head under my jian’s edge.

A walking staff leapt into his hands from somewhere behind the stump. He struck me on the head. As I reeled back, he jutted his thumb into the center of my forehead. My inner sight was opened and I fell through mist and darkness.

A black void speckled with pinpoints of sparkling light surrounded me. A shooting star whizzed past, forcing me to lunge out of the way. Across from me hovered the monk in an ethereal body. His entire being seemed to be made of light and void, like a constellation. He jabbed me with his staff. Confusion racked my mind down to my core essence, until I surmised he had projected both of us to the astral plane.

We danced through space and time, our clashes crumbled planets and sliced through stars. My ethereal jian locked against his mystic staff, his glowing face was a breath away. I head-butted him and my laughter echoed into eternity. With a flick of his wrist he flung the staff and grew into a tiger of pure star fire. It roared and I fell, passing through a thick nebula. Colors I could not comprehend coalesced around my soul.

My scarred face burned as if a dormant fire lay beneath the skin. In the recesses of my mind I knew that the creature that gave me that scar left a remnant of itself within me. But I dared not summon the source of my shame. So I yielded.

The tiger pounced, forcing me through a black hole. I fell up, stretched into myself, and shrunk in all directions.

When my face collided with the dirt path again I almost did not register the pain. Almost.

While my head spun, the monk sat back down on the stump and resumed his meditation.

I dusted off my robes and patted the dirt from my loose trousers. “All illusions and nothing more,” I said. “I just remembered, I have my own water. Here.” I mustered up the last of the liquid in my throat and hawked it at the edge of the stump, just missing the monk. Before he could react, I sheathed my blade and stormed off. Parched, I pretended not to hear his smug snickering.

-3-

The only breeze reaching my nostrils carried the odor wafting from my armpits. Thinking about my underarms made them itchy. Reaching into my faded emerald robes, I scratched with vigor. My skin reddened with irritation and my face wore a scowl.

A fly buzzed around my face, landing in my hair. “Be gone, fly, before I banish you to the same hell as the bloodsucker.” The threat seemed to work.

If my armpits were sticky before, they glued my arms to my body now. I tied the robe around my waist, exposing my torso to the elements. Had there been a breeze it would have felt good. As it was, I somehow felt worse, but left my robes the way they were in an attempt to cool off.

Soon, I came across a weathered, wrinkly faced peddler traveling between sales venues. The donkey pulling her cart eyed me, as if I were a thief scheming to lift her handmade wares.

“Give me a drink, woman,” I croaked.

With one of her long sleeves she covered her nose. “You reek.”

“I'm on the verge of death. Water.”

“Buy something from me,” she crowed. She lifted a beaded necklace which reminded me of the monk. Pushing it out of my face, I said, “Water. Please, woman. Water.”

She blinked several times, and though her eyes were barely slits, she squinted even more. “That scar on your face…”

My back stiffened and I turned the scarred side of my face away from her. “It's nothing. Simply the stripes of a warrior.”

“Stripes from a sky serpent more likely,” she said. “You’re him, aren't you? The accursed youxia.”

I gnashed my teeth at her. “What does it matter who I am? I need water.”

“Trade me, then.”

The fly came back, pestering me. I swatted at it with vigor, missing every time. “I have nothing to trade.”

Her weathered eyes roamed over my glistening torso. “Were I a younger woman—”

I cut her off. “What do you want from me, hag? What task could my strength avail you?”

“Chop me some firewood.”

Muttered curses slipped out under my breath, some for the fly, and some for her. She produced a small hand axe from amongst her wares. I wasted no time, only precious breath and sweat. Before long, I produced a sizeable pile of firewood.

As payment she handed me a small stack of pulpy square paper. To be fair, it was of excellent quality. Each page cut into a precise square, each piece dyed a vibrant color. But they held no value to me.

“No, give me my drink.”

“You don’t understand, wanderer. This is enchanted paper intended for folding—”

“I don’t care. Give me water.”

She shuffled awkwardly, rising to her feet. I held out my hand, expecting some sort of jug or pitcher to be given up.

“I barely have enough water myself.” She raised a mottled hand and pointed with a bony gnarled finger. “Over on yonder mountains are waterfalls that never cease to flow.”

Mountains reached to the skies like the massive fingers of some fallen eldritch giant. Evergreen trees spread over them like a living cloak. Serene clouds brushed the sides of the still sentinels, surrounding them in fresh, damp air.

But I was nowhere near those mountains. They had eluded me for some time.

I said nothing to her but a scream of rage left my lips. I gripped my paper in one hand and my hilt in the other and left before I cut her down on accident.

-4-

By the time I reached the bottom of the mountain the soles of my feet were sweaty, yet dry dust found a way between my toes. My hair was caked to the back of my neck and my forehead was slick with sweat.

Though finding water was doubtful, anger still boiled in my veins when I did not catch sight of any. Instead a tottering fence met my eyes and the sounds of the hichiriki reed flute drifted from the enclosure.

Perched on the edge of the fence sat a wrinkled old man with a hair as white as heron feathers. His spindly legs dangled, his feet just brushing the mud. In the enclosure behind, pigs bathed in the muck, rolling to the tunes of the flute.

He played the hichiriki with much fervor, but not much skill. I wrinkled my face and covered my ears. “Ho, old man, stop that. The pig squeals make better melody.” I alarmed the old man so that he almost fell from the fence, but caught himself on a wiggling post. The pigs snorted and moved closer to meet me. The old man laughed in spite of being startled.

He was mere steps from me and I forgot to hide my scar, but he seemed to look at me and through me all at once, with a glossy, dead stare.

“Are you blind as well as tone deaf, pig farmer?”

He laughed again. “I am.” He drew close, following my voice. Before I could stop him, the man reached out and touched my face. I recoiled, thinking that his hands would stink, but they smelled of fresh earth. His hand ran over my scars, but if he knew who I was, he did not react, nor was he taken aback. Then, his fingers brushed over my calloused and cracked hands. His wrist bumped into my hilt and he knew what I was then. He bowed to me. “What can I do for you, warrior?”

I bit my lip. “You give me too much honor, old man. I am no warrior but a forsaken youxia.”

“Still, I am at your service. Ask anything of me.”

I paused. “Where can I find fresh water?”

“I just drank the last of my water.” He grimaced. “I have water for them,” he said pointing to the pigs, “but I do not think it is fresh. They have been drinking out of it.”

I followed his finger with my eyes and then with my feet. Stepping into the enclosure, mud hiked up my legs and soiled the bottom of my trousers. I did not care. I submerged my face in the trough. It was disgusting and there were particles of food and other things floating in it but I drank until my stomach was full. Then the aftertaste hit me and I vomited it all up.

After catching my breath and wiping the bile from my beard, I rose to my feet. The old man laughed at me again, but unlike the monk, I could not hate him for it. “I'm sorry the water did not agree with your stomach,” said the man.

“That is okay,” I said, heaving again. “How can I repay you, old man?”

“Repay me?”

I looked around for something to do but the pig herder seemed content. Then I remembered the paper. Smiling, I drew it from my robes. With quick fingers, I sifted through colorful sheets seeking a color that reminded me of the pink lotus flower. Once I found it, I folded the paper, creasing the corners with my fingertips. Turning the paper around and over, I flipped edges, tucked corners, and lifted folds. Soon, I presented him the perfect replica of a pink pig. My clever smile faded under his glossy gaze. My talents were wasted on a blind man who could not appreciate the paper rendition of his livestock.

I pressed the paper pig into his hand. “Gently,” I said not wanting him to crush it. His brow wrinkled in contemplation at first, then his eyebrows hiked up his forehead. A smile warmed his face. “So, there is more to this youxia. I feel it. A practitioner of the folding paper art of zhezhi. Very good.”

I shrugged. “It is a passion of mine,” I said softly. The old man turned the pig over and over in his hand, examining every side and angle of it.

A loud groan echoed down the mountain. We both turned to regard the cry.

“You know,” said the pig herder, “we would have clean water here if it weren't for the dorotabo. The bile muck it makes runs down the mountain, ruining everything. But I have found a good opportunity in it,” he said laughing. “It is perfect for pigs. But still, it makes finding fresh water hard. I have to walk very far to get it. I stumble often.”

It was then that I noticed the bruises on his arms. No doubt more were hidden beneath his tunic.

I brought my hand to my mouth, stroking my mustache and beard stubble. “Why has no one removed the yokai? The monk, perhaps?”

The old man waved his hand in dismissal. “The monk would rather meditate. He is too lofty for his own good, I'm afraid.”

“Is there no one else?”

“We have no other warriors here. One by one, families have left this valley as the yokai's corruption spreads.”

I envisioned the old man stumbling, alone, groping about for water in the eternal darkness, not a soul to help him. Meanwhile, the creature of chaos went unchecked.

And it was not just the blind pig herder. He had said so himself. Families had been forced to leave already, abandoning their land, their homes, and their memories. Who was I to complain that I had no water for today? These people would never have clean water again. They were helpless and hopeless.

Unless...

I tightened my calloused hands into fists. “I will end the dorotabo.”

-5-

Back up the mountain I went. My calves burned. My stomach tossed around with the aftertaste of the bile on my tongue. But my anger drove me.

Soon I passed the peddler. She looked into my eyes. Seeing the fury there, she shrunk away. I kicked up dust in my wake, stepping over cracks, quickening my pace up the mountain.

The smug monk came into view but I ignored him and kept walking. He cracked an eyelid and glanced at me sideways, curious. If he sniggered that time I would not have heard. The only sound in my ears was the damp throaty cry of the muck demon.

I did not have to guess where it was. It was obvious. I marched to the lowest terrace of the rice paddy field, the putrid odors mingling with my own stench. The only thing separating me from the demon’s domain was a small plank serving as a footbridge. It creaked as I crossed. A cry sprang from my lips, answering the yokai. “Come at me, dorotabo. You seek to savor death, and I long to release my fury.”

The demon answered me immediately. Strings of bubbles traveled across the swamp-like surface. A rotted face erupted out of the water. In life a man, in the afterlife, a lipless teeth-baring abomination.

It moved faster than I anticipated. A three fingered hand rose from the watery crypt, piercing my flesh, drawing blood from my chest. I tore away from it, catching it in the face with a clog-sandaled kick. Metal rang as I drew my weapon and cut a line in the muck, daring the beast to cross me.

It sank into the mire until only its bloodshot eyeballs could be seen, then submerged altogether. It snuck up behind me with ease. But my reflexes were just as quick. With an upward stab, the jian buried itself into the dorotabo all the way to the guard. A sharp scream of pain from the monster shook my body. I kicked the corpse from my jian. The defeated demon sank into its sludge tomb.

Or so I assumed.

I was too distracted to notice the silt tsunami that arose behind it, until it was too late. A wave of dark filth enveloped me, and the undertow pulled me into the depths of the rice paddy field. The waves tossed me like a storm. I flung my arms and kicked my legs with all my might, not even sure if I was swimming up or down.

I realized that both my hands were empty, my blade lost. Finally, I breached the black surface and sucked in air greedily. Flinging my hair out of my face and wiping my eyes, I saw the yokai swimming towards me. My flailing arms struck something at my back, startling me. A splinter of relief pricked me as I realized it was the small footbridge.

Mounting the floating plank was all I could do to keep from drowning and I tried to stand, so that I might leap out of the field onto dry ground. But the yokai sent another crashing wave at me. I crouched low on the plank, reaching deep inside myself, finding my Qi. A wave of inner balance rushed over me as the outer wave threatened to drown me forever. I found my balance and rode the wave like a ship at sea.

As I shot down the wave, I reached out with my Qi summoning my sword from the depths of the water. The jian leapt from the murky swamp into my palm with a satisfying slap. I steered the plank towards the dorotabo and attacked with Tiger’s Swipe, severing its arm from the shoulder. My momentum slowed until I was forced to leap off the plank in shallow waters. To my horror, the monster’s arm regenerated as if I had never severed it. Qi built in my core, until I released it through my legs, launching myself at the monster. With the wind at my back, I attacked it using the Thousand Strikes of the Heron Beak. My sword went in and out of the monster easily, but every wound inflicted was healed within mere breaths. The monster swiped at me again and I severed off another arm only to watch it grow back.

The demon’s scream summoned another wave, washing me out of the field completely and into the trees above. I collided with a treetop hard. All the wind rushed out of my chest. Sunlight breaking through the treetops dried the mud on my torso. Yet another wave hit me like a flash flood. The water level climbed high into the trees. I ran along a winding branch using my Qi to leap out of the way of the onslaught.

Wave after wave the beast sent at me and I leapt from branch to branch like a macaque monkey. But the drying mud covering my body and my robes slowed me by the second. Soon, the sun's rays would prevent me from moving at all, like dried clay.

A new tactic struck me. I knew what I must do to finish the dorotabo.

I hacked away at the branches of the tree I was in. Instantly, a beam of sunlight shot through the dense forest of trees, illuminating the monster. The demon cried out in pain and ducked into the shadows.

Enraged bravado erupted from my lips. “Before you die, you will fear me, dorotabo. I am the dragon slayer! I’ve laid waste the sailing sky serpents. I fear no demons.”

Sensing my triumph, I combined Swift Hare with Bear Sharpens Claws to hack large branches off of the trees surrounding the rice paddy field. Light beams poured into the monster's home from all angles. The shadows grew slim and there was almost nowhere the dorotabo could hide its entire body, leaving parts of itself exposed to the sun.

No sooner had I perched atop a rotted tree did the dorotabo launch a desperate final attack. A torrent of muck water hit the tree trunk with the force of a wild stampede of mountain ogres. The trunk exploded and I fell.

The decrepit undead demon welcomed me with open arms. It dragged me into the water, pulling me towards its open maw to be munched on by yellow molars. Teeth sank into my shoulder. I yelled. Sharp pain muddled my mind. Down, down we dove. Slime poured into my mouth, ears, and eyes. I held fast to my jian, but could hardly move in the thick of it. Bone-thin fingers cut into my neck as the creature squeezed the life out of me.

Is this how I would die? This was certainly what my former master and warlord wanted, to hear that after all my feats of prowess, I had succumbed to a nameless backwater demon. A fitting death for one so shameful. It would prove that I was truly worthless, that the guilt I bore was just and right. That I deserved the shame, and that fate had seen to my end. But despite what my former master thought was true, I knew in my heart that I did not warrant this death.

The sky serpents were benevolent creatures, we were told. After encountering a dragon, one should expect blessings upon blessings. Untold luck would charm the man who beheld a defender of the skies. What lies.

After stumbling on its cavern nest, the dragon attacked my master and I. Naturally I defended him unto death as I was sworn to do. The death of the dragon, that was. But not without being scored across the face by its claws. Yet for all my devotion, my master saw the slaying of a dragon as an unforgivable transgression. Thus I was banished, lest I taint his name anymore.

Yet after slaying a magnificent beast, I now wrestled with a pitiful bag of bones, one that proved almost too strong for me.

But within the scar, the dragon imbued me with a fragment of itself.

This would not be my end.

Blue dragon fire inflamed my scar, racing down my limbs, threatening to burn my bones. The silt retreated, receding away from me and the dorotabo until we stood on dry ground.

I pointed my weapon skyward, using my Qi to send dragon fire into the jian itself. I lunged at the demon. With the white-hot point of my sword leading, my entire body became like a fiery arrow. The monster attempted to flee, realizing its doom.

It let out one last hoarse hiss as I executed Viper’s Fang. Blue-white light from the jian spread across the monster's chest, igniting its torso, arms, and face. Its voice weakened, crackling, until it dried up like an empty well. As I pulled my sword free, the monster crumbled into dust.

-6-

For a few moments, nothing happened. All was still. And then slowly, from everywhere and nowhere, puddles of clean water sprang forth, growing until they touched each other and formed a larger body of water. Even the grey bark of the trees surrounding the terraced field grew into a rich dark chestnut. All of the malevolent oppression dominating the rice fields was suddenly swept up in the wind, blown away, and forgotten. Faint chirping echoed throughout the forest as birds reveled in fresh air for the first time in ages.

I reached my dirty hand down to the cool, clear water. The layered crust dispelled, purified by the water’s touch. I cleaned my other hand, then cupped water to my mouth. Chilled liquid flowed over my lips, my tongue, and down my throat. A sigh escaped my mouth and I leaned my head back and laughed. I dove headfirst into the water, submerging myself, letting the water purify my entire being.

-7-

After reaching the bottom of the mountain I found that a new stream flowed right past the pig farmer’s enclosure. He sat there playing the flute again, but this time as he played, my zhezhi paper pig danced to the tune, brought to life by the magic of his melody. And this time the melody flowed, soft and serene.

He sensed me approaching and stopped playing. The paper pig trotted over to me and I bent to pick it up.

“What has happened warrior?” he asked.

“I slew the demon of the mire.”

The blind herder gasped. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. “Thank you. You have brought life back to the valley.”

From my palm, the pig scuttled along my arm until it rested on my shoulder beneath my ear.

“Now, I can leave you in peace old man, knowing in my soul that I helped a friend.”

I tried to hand the pig to him but he waved his hand in dismissal. “Keep it wanderer, to remember me.” He also handed me a large gourd jug with a stopper in top hanging by a leather strap. “For your endless journey.”

After filling the gourd, I bowed to him even though he could not see, then threw the strap over my shoulder. The rhythm of sloshing fresh water inside the gourd gave me a tempo to whistle my own version of the old man’s hichiriki tune. My skin felt renewed and a smile touched my lips.

The high mountains in the distance looked closer than ever.

My stomach rumbled. I had gone without food even longer than I had been without water. But I was mindful not to burden the blind pig herder by demanding food for my travels. Still. What I would have given for a steaming bowl of fried noodles and pork.

My mouth watered and I licked my lips at the thought of a warm meal.

END