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Yuki-Onna

A Siren's Call

By Kevin RejouisPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
3
Art work by Kevin Rejouis

Droplets of blood impressed themselves upon the soft blanket of fresh snow. A rapid crunching of snow ceased, and the boy began to inspect his surroundings frantically before fixating his attention on the lacerations on his arm. He silently observed his bleeding as the surrounding cold numbed the burning pain which emanated from his torn bicep. The boy ripped a strip of his dingy kimono to create a makeshift tourniquet. If he could stop the bleeding it would be far easier to escape his pursuers.

He lifted his chin till his gaze rested upon the dark and hazy horizon. Unfamiliar with the landmarks of this icy tundra, the boy knew he had traveled farther north than he had ever been. The tundra was lonely and mostly silent, the sound of a gentle wind and the occasional yelping of arctic foxes were the only companions he had. “I am a deserter,” the boy thought to himself. If any survivors from his platoon caught a cowardly creature such as himself they would surely execute him. The sheath which rested on his left thigh began to gently rattle and the crunching of snow resumed.

The deserter carried a katana but he was no warrior, he was a boy barely approaching his transition into adulthood, anxious about the world and women and cowardly when it came to his duty. He was far too soft and gentle for war. The horrors he witnessed on the battlefield magnified his innate cowardice; brave men twice his size maimed and decapitated; boys his age who stood for honor trampled and flattened to death by the heavy hooves of enemy war horses; and valiant corpses with their stiff fingers firmly grasping their katanas ready to continue their fight into the afterlife.

The boy was not like those honorable men. He could not summon courage like them, fight like them, but he was far better than any of those men at running. He ran away to war to escape squalor and his duties as the new head of the household when a nasty fever defeated his father. He was excellent at running past his comrades who begged for help as they struggled to keep their spilling entrails within their rib cages. He was highly adept at tuning out the orders of his general as he focused on increasing the rhythm of his waraji as they slapped violently against the frozen earth. Where he felt death and danger he was a master of avoidance. So he continued to do what he did best, and ran away from reality until death inevitably would catch up to him.

Exhausted, light-headed, and covered in a layer of cold sweat, the boy realized he was severely dehydrated. Poverty had taught him that he could go several days without solid food, however, a lack of water would be his undoing. He needed to rely on his distorted vision and the yelping of the arctic foxes to navigate his way towards the possibility of water. He closed his eyes to focus his mind on the soundscape inside of his head. While shivering, the boy patiently awaited the foxes' cry amidst the whipping of the wintry winds. He focused his attention on the labored cries northwest and the boy swiftly moved in its direction.

It was a frigid winter morning when the deserter found an old shack and a woman draped over the thick blanket of snow near the edge of a frozen pond. She lay there as still as the pond itself. If it were not for her dark black hair, her porcelain skin and white dress would have camouflaged her body within the fallen snow. The boy slowly crept up to the mysterious woman, to not scare her or himself if she happened to spring back to life. As the boy made his way to where the pond’s edge met the once verdant earth, the icy corpse came to life.

There was no one like her.

None with lips as taut and blue like hers. None with stiff, matted locs like hers; her long black hair was decorated with frozen jewels which glistened in the pale dawn. None with eyes like hers, frozen shut by the icy tears which lay on her face. Her head turned to face the boy’s direction, her eyelashes slowly prying open exposing her deep blue eyes which pierced his awareness.

The boy was in total awe at the creature which stood before him. Fear had overcome him, and the beating in his chest quickened and his body tensed. Her mouth began to move, and a soft and soothing sound escaped her lips. Her song relaxed the boy, his body surrendering to her. She crept towards him. The maiden walked with an overwhelming elegance as if she was taking great care to not bruise the earth with her dainty steps. The earth responded and pressed up against the soles of her feet to not taint the snow maiden with affairs of worldly men.

He had thought to himself, “She did not belong here, she was far too beautiful for a place like this.” Even the earth knew there was no one like her. The icy earth desperately pressed up against the soles of her feet in order to push her up to the heavens, for she did not belong to this miserable place.

Her gaze and song captivated the boy and locked him in time and space. She crept closer to him at a rhythmic pace. The boy felt both intense fear and wonder from the creature which stood before him. She closed the distance between them, and her right hand lifted from her side and gently rested on the boy’s cold cheek. A surprising warmth emerged from the boy's chest, and his beating heart calmed.

He had never felt this way. Not with his family, his comrades or in his own company. Individuality made him lonely. He often felt no joy around others or with himself, only feeling the coldness of life regardless of the season. The maiden who stood before him was the first one to provide the poor boy with this kind of warmth. A warmth that made him forget the dryness in his throat, the aching in his belly, and the pain in his bicep.

She looked innocently into the boy's haggard eyes, pulled his face toward hers until her lips met his. The loneliness in his heart melted away. She pulled back after a moment, and grabbed his free hand and began to lead the young man into the shack at the pond's edge. And that night he would come to know a different kind of warmth, one that awakened a man’s carnal desires and made a boy into a man.

The next morning the young man rose from his slumber and watched his maiden sleep peacefully next to him on the old straw mat. She began to slightly shiver involuntarily and he pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. It was freezing. The young man looked at the old fire pit in the middle of the shack’s floor and glanced back at his lover. He rose to his feet and confidently exited the doorway of the shack. Color had returned to the world. She gave him warmth, she gave him love but most of all she gave him a newfound purpose.

After successfully foraging for dry firewood, the young man made his way to a clearing in the brush only to be stopped by a terrible sight near the pond's edge. There was his maiden in the snow, with her breast exposed, being attacked by three animals disguised as men. They were wearing the colors of his forgotten comrades. Rage boiled up from the young man's gut. He began to unsheath his katana, but reality immobilized him. She cried out for him. The young man pleaded with his body to give him control so that he could save her. However, a primal fear held him in place as he watched the animals violate his lover. For a moment the lovers' eyes met and an unbearable silence followed. After they beat her and took turns dishonoring her, they threw her body into the frozen pond and marched northward.

The young man waited for the marching in the snow to quiet and salvaged the maiden’s battered body from the pond. She lay there unconscious in his arms, and he carried her into the shack and covered her bruised body with the straw mat. She lay unconscious for a day and when she finally awoke the boy never saw her smile again.

One morning he returned with kindling in his arms to their pond and found his beloved nymph shrieking in pain. She lay standing with her knees submerged in the icy water. Her gracious cry metamorphosed into a piercing screech that called him to action at once. He dashed into the frigid waters, grabbing his love, and wrestled with the pond for her freedom. He carefully approached to comfort her and she lashed out wildly at the boy. Her nails cut like knives; gently flaying his flesh. But her pain overshadowed his, and he pulled her from the depths. He tightly held his bleeding body against hers, and she lay gently sobbing in his arms, and the boy's blood began to stain the white blanket of snow beneath them.

One day turned into two, and two to four or five. With the marching of time, each day became indistinguishable from the last and they would repeat their daily dance. She cursed the heavens, and the boy would passionately rush to her aid. With his feeble body, he would wrestle with her and the pond adamantly and she would use his body as a canvas to release her sorrow. He lovingly consoled her and she would then be calm for a time, experiencing the illusion of peace for a night until the sun inevitably rose again.

The sun pierced through the darkness and his love called out to him again. The boy tried to move his body but today his mind pinned him to the straw sleeping mat. She bellowed and he lay there tired, with an able body and a defeated mind. He tried to rebel to gain control over his limbs but his cowardice triumphed and made the final decision. He collapsed back to the ground beneath him, and quietly assumed the fetal position, tears rolling down his freezing and sunken face. The boy felt the hollowness and anguish in his chest return as he heard his love violently flail in the freezing pond.

Two nights passed and an overwhelming quiet consumed him. He now had enough strength to push himself to his stiff feet and hobbled out of the shack. The boy could still hear her faint but labored cries through the forest, in the direction of their sacred pond. He tripped, hurting his left knee on the hard snow beneath him. His desire provided him with enough strength to crawl towards the edge of the pond.

Shame washed over his body as he glared at the thin layer of ice where he had once wrestled the pond for possession of his nymph. The man wept. He screamed endlessly at the heavens and blamed God for taking his joy from him. As his sobbing ceased, he could hear a faint noise beneath the sheet of ice. He pressed his ear to it to examine further. His distressed brain persuaded him that the beautiful song beneath the ice could be none other than her. “She must still be alive,” he thought to himself. Now it was time to be courageous. He began to slam his feeble hands against the ice violently, breaking flesh and bone with each strike. The ice yielded and exposed the pond below. Finally, he could hear her faint echo clearer than before, her beautiful song persuaded his heart to reunite with her in the freezing depths below.

Short Story
3

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