ISHII731

“Shota.”

He continued to pack the sling bag, his name rolling off his ears.

“Shota, please. Stop and listen."

It was no good. The bag was packed and thrown over his shoulder.

“Stop, Shota!” He said placing a hand on his shoulder.

Shota snapped his gaze at the headmaster. His eyes were almost crazed and red from the lack of sleep.

“You don’t have to go there again. You’ve proved your devotion a hundred times over. Stay here and teach tradition with me.”

Shota’s eyes drifted on the headmaster’s hand on his shoulder - the headmaster retracted it.

“It is tradition that says I must go,”

The headmaster sighed. Shota was almost too devoted.

“I don’t think you understand fully what I am proposing. We have a new crop of apprentices seeking to learn Shintoism. I cannot teach them the way myself. Stay, and become a headmaster.”

The offer, which would be a great honor, was not even tempting for Shota. He had no desire to teach, only to practice. His silence was answer enough.

“I admire your conviction. I do. But who are you performing this for? That place is accursed. Abandoned. The shrine there has been sullied and robbed of blessings. So why do you maintain it?”

Shota looked beyond the headmaster and into the hall. A group of apprentices was listening. He would let them hear well.

“Shintoism is more than ideology, dear headmaster. Merely passing on the teachings does little good. We must practice.”

With that, Shota walked around the headmaster and into the hall.

The young men, clothed in traditional white garbs, stepped aside and made way for Shota to pass through. As his sandals beat against the finely polished wooden floors, priests and apprentices alike hovered not too far behind him, murmuring among themselves.

“Where is he going?”

“He’s leaving again…”

“To that place?”

Shota stood at the Torii Gate in between the large red columns and under Shimenawa, gazing at the path down the mountain. At his back was his brothers in faith standing just outside the shrine. Once he stepped from under the Torii Gate, he’d be symbolically leaving the realm of divine protection and entering the world of the mundane.

He was prepared. Clad in black garbs, contrasting that of his brothers. On his back was the sling bag, packed with water and nutrition. On his side, wrapped tightly on his hip, was the shakujō, a ceremonial short staff with a wooden handle and metal rings enclosed in a circle. The trek would be a long one, but he was compelled to follow through. Something must be done.

He stepped from under the Torii Gate and into the mundane.

Shota descended from the mountain, the stone steps leading to the shrine thinning under his sandals and merging into the forest floor. His eyes welcomed the sea of emeralds casting out over the horizon. He could hear the cool splashings of a nearby creek powering on with ambitions of becoming a steady stream. He could see plots thicken in the thickets as the bushes wavered under heated chase. It was a serpent of some kind, slithering by. He filled his lungs with the Earth’s scent. Exhaled. He was grounded, but all the activity in the forest could not drown out the voices.

After three days, he reached a fisherman’s port on the edge of the island. The port mostly consisted of small wooden boats tied to rows of docks and a fishing shop at the entrance. He couldn’t have arrived at a better time. His sling bag was empty and his stomach didn’t make for the best traveling companion.

Shota sat down in front of the proprietor who gave him a welcoming nod.

“Yaki saba,” Shota said.

With a bow, the proprietor turned his back and prepared the dish.

Shota let his eyes go over the shop, then his ears. The place was filled with fishermen drinking. He gathered that the sea was stingy that day. Fortuitous, he thought.

The dish was placed in front of him. A grilled mackerel sliced in four pieces with a crispy outside served with a side of soy and a cup of tea. Shota bowed his head and prayed over it. The scent was most pleasing to his empty stomach, and for a moment, he became a bit of a glutton. It'd been a while since he enjoyed good food, and he planned to savor it.

“2000 ¥,” the proprietor said.

Shota tore his attention away from the dish. “2000? That’s almost double as last time.”

“It is. You can blame the war like the rest-a these sorry barnacles here.”

He had the funds, but that was all he had. Paying for the dish would mean he'd have no money to pay for passage. He made his decision and slid the dish from under his nose. Before the proprietor could retrieve it, a man sat down the exact amount of yen and slid the dish back to Shota. The proprietor took the money instead.

“I guess the priests up in the mountains don’t know much about what’s going on down here, huh?”

Shota turned to him. The man looked seasoned with a youthful build. His pants were tucked into rubber boots and held up on his waist by a fishermen’s net functioning as a belt.

“Gratitude for the meal. What do you want?”

“Straight to the point. Don’t worry… Eat. I’m no shark.”

“Shota closed his eyes and continued his prayer, picking up the chopsticks.

“I’m Ryo, Kannushi-san,” He said with a bow.”

Shota stared at the dish, reluctant to pick up the first piece.

"Is it not to your liking?"

"No. It's not that." He stuck the first piece in his mouth, seemingly struggling to chew.

“I remember you from months ago. You came seeking fare over to the next islands.

“Yes.”

“Allow me to aid you this time…”

Shota picked at the second piece. He indeed came to the port seeking a boat to the other side, but it was never this easy with fishermen. What was the catch?

He wiped his mouth. “What do you ask in return?”

“A small favor…”

Of course.

“I need to take you to someone dear to me and lead us in prayer…”

Shota watched his reflection in the tea before closing his eyes and washing it down. Ryo’s request was modest, so the decision was made easy

“I will see your loved one. When should we depart?”

“Soon after you finish your dish, Kannushi-san.”

Shota pushed the fish away. He'd barely touched it.

The boat seated two comfortably. Shota sat while Ryo stood and manned the oar at the rear, occasionally adjusting their path.

“Where were you headed anyway?”

“Unanari…”

Ryo paused.

“Forgive me for asking, but, there’s nothing on that island. What business do you have there?”

“Same business I have with you I suppose: A prayer.”

“I see. So the rumors are true. You’re the priest who prayed over that village…”

Shota stared over the murky waters. They were closing in on a shoreline.

“You are noble indeed Kannushi-san. I’m fortunate to have you along with me.”

They walked through a grassland not too far from the shoreline. Shota looked on ahead, trying to spot a house, or some sort of dwelling off in the distance. There was only a flat plain.

“Where is your loved one?”

“We’re almost there.”

At that moment, following Ryo’s lead, Shota found something off in the distance. A marker of sorts, growing in size as they approached. He could make it out now: A cross fashioned out of wood and nails stuck in the ground. A name was painted across it in black ink reading “Ryoto”. Ryo stood beside it.

“Here he is. My first and only son.”

Shota stood over what he now realized to be a grave site. A patch of rich soil disturbed the grassy plain.

“How did it happen?”

“We were in the water. I was teaching him to fish, like my father taught me. And this giant ship from the Japanese army came straight for us. We couldn’t get from under it; our boat shattered on impact. Ryoto he… He swam as best he could. But the ship…”

Shota closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“When I’d finally found his body… It looked like…”

“How long has it been?”

“A year now. You’re the only priest I’ve seen traveling across here since the war. I fear it’s too late to hope for a proper burial.”

“Ease yourself, friend,” Shota said removing the shakujō from his hip. “I will make sure his rest is a peaceful one…”

Ryo let these words enter his heart. He took a deep breath, surrendering the site to Shota. He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

Shota aimed his staff, capturing the grave within the larger ring. He used his free hand to dig in his sling bag, producing a canteen filled with purified water. He poured the water onto the rings of the staff and allowed it to pass onto the soil of the dead. He bowed again and initiated the prayer.

He focused on cleansing the site of any pain and resentment. Longing and loss. When life is cut down so suddenly, spirits often linger unable to cope with the reality of their untimely demise. If this was the first cleansing for Ryoto since his passing, his spirit might surely be made of malice.

As he prayed, he felt a weight slither across his sandal, sending a cold snap up his leg and into his spine. He peeked at the grave and found the tail of a serpent making its way into the soil. He shut his eyes and focused on the prayer. The faint sound of water trickled through his mind, distracting him. The soft trickles turned into violent waves, drowning out the prayers altogether. He could feel it going down his throat, water washing from his mind’s eye and into his lungs.

He opened his eyes. The grave once packed will soil was now a mud-filled ditch. Thick bubbles gargled to the surface, summoning a corpse from the depths of the sludge. It was a young man, flesh mangled and maimed by the propellers of a warship. His missing limbs and phalanges bobbed next to him in a cesspool of degeneration. Half his face was missing, but the one good eye was fixed directly on Shota.

“Come into the water,” a voice whispered in his mind.

The eye, irritated by grit and grain, peered into Shota’s soul, compelling him to join the water.

Shota moved forward until he stood at the foot of the pool.

“Closer,” the voice whispered.

Shota felt at ease when the voice spoke to him. Joining the water would mean he could be closer to this feeling. The closer he got, the better he felt. He stuck his foot out, dangling it over the violent waters of the murky pit.

“NOW!” The voice shouted.

Shota took the plunge…

Thud!

Ryo opened his eyes and found Shota lying face-first atop a solid bed of soil.

“Uh, Kannushi-san?”

Shota lifted his head. He had a mask of dirt on his face.

“Is— Is the purification complete?”

“Yes," he said rising to his feet, wiping the dirt from his face.

Ryo used both hands for the handshake.

“Thank you, Kannushi-san. Now my boy can rest!”

Ryo led the way back to the boat with a spring in his step. Shota lagged behind, reflecting on what’d just happened. The unclean visions. They were getting worse

As they drifted closer to the shoreline, a dense fog rolled in over the water, seemingly pouring in from the island. Ryo stalled the boat in apprehension, at first, but saw Shota’s eyes focused ahead, granting him the heart to push forward.

When his feet hit the sand, he gazed up at the imposing shadow looming in the backdrop. A mountain surrounded by clouds smothered the sun and cast a tint of melancholy over the plain.

A second pair of feet hit the sand, prompting Shota to look over. It was Ryo, securing his boat.

“You’ve got business here?” Shota asked.

“Yeah. Same business with you…”

Shota let that full circle moment pass.

“You don’t have to come with me. Better still, I’d prefer it if you’d return home.”

“That’s no good. It’ll take you almost two days to get up that mountain,” he pointed upward. “I want to help.”

“Ryo… I thank you for your companionship thus far—“

“I should be thanking you.”

Shota managed a grin. “You’re welcome…” He held out his hand. A signal to go.

“But won’t you need fare back to the mainland? I can come back for you.”

“Don’t worry yourself with me, Ryo. I am no responsibility of yours. I’ll find my way back.”

Ryo shook his head. Shota laid a hand on his shoulder.

"have that yaki saba ready for me..."

He pushed the boat back into the water, leaving a slice drawn in the sand. Hopped aboard. As he drifted away from shore, the image of Shota became more and more distorted until he was a silhouette of his former self. The fog had swallowed him whole.

He stood under the Torii Gate, or what was left of it. The kasagi bar that ran horizontally, connecting the two large columns at the top had been blown to pieces. Shota figured that this must’ve been done by a missile or some large caliber weapon. What was once a brilliantly crimson gate was now a cracking structure, riddled with black powder and soot inked in the seams.

It’d been three months since he stood upon the wreckage of the village. The grass grew tall on the outer perimeter, but the inner grounds were charred and ill-equipped to grow life. The rows of wooden houses were still standing, but just barely. The storms of war had blown them to structural compromise. Some houses leaned, others were missing windows and doors, and some outright missing entire walls. Such is the nature of man and their desires. It was like a fire; altering and twisting things until it was no longer recognizable. Until there was nothing left.

The shrine was not exempt. When Shota first arrived, there were numerous signs of conflict. A holy place of prayer and purity was tainted by brass shells and pained with old blood. He cleaned and purified the shrine on his last visit, but something happened...

His last visit ended in a coma. He was making his way through the village from the shrine when he lost consciousness. In the dark of his mind, he heard voices of a sinister aura. His brain was awake, but the connection to his senses was severed. He lied in this abysmal state for what he could only gauge as three days.

When he regained the light in his eyes and the strength in his body returned, he was lying on the shrine floor. A deep sense of anxiety crawled from the base of his skull and seeped into his heart. Something was wrong, and his body knew it. That was when the voices started. That was when the serpent came.

It was a voice without gender. Dichotomized. A voice of ambiguity. It spoke from behind the veil of the darkest recesses of Shota’s mind, echoing from the deepest part of his consciousness. At first, it was only whispered, nudging him to go against his better judgment and perform petty acts of mischief. After some time the voice grew louder than his own internal voice, using the power go suggestion to wreak havoc on his community, even influences of murder.

When Shota’s will proved to be too strong for influence, the unclean visions started. Death, disease, decay, all things of fare and nourishment were reduced to a putrescent sight. Sometimes even people were not whole. Sleep was not an escape, as he’d only become closer to the voice as he sunk deeper into unconsciousness. This took a great toll on Shota’s mind and body- the sleep deprivation, the starvation. He knew not what had invaded his body, but it must be cleansed. He'd keep the voice and the unclean visions to himself and prepare for the trek back to the village.

The Shimenawa was still intact- rope tied to both sides of the pillar and dangling in an arch above the altar. It was the shide that was withered and crumbling. Shota dug into his sling bag and produced a stack of zig-zag-like paper streamers and tied them all to the dangling Shimenawa. The spiritual barrier for warding off evil and negative spirits was now enhanced. He could now commence the purification While he retrieved the flask of purified water, a glean of hope washed over his heart. His belief in Shintoism is what gave him the strength to trek on with the unclean parasite in tow. Once he cleansed and purged this shrine of evil, he too would be cleansed.

He poured the water upon the shrine, its clear form washing away build-up in the dry bowl. He closed his eyes and started the prayer. The canteen became heavy in his hand, accompanied by a foul scent. His eyes shot open- the pure water flowing from the canteen had slowly become infected by a deep crimson. By this time, there should have been no water left, but the red sap-like substance poured itself, producing chunks of viscera crashing into the bowl.

When he looked down, the bowl was filled with blood and bile. The glean of hope in his heart had turned to a growing ache consuming his faith. He stumbled back. The strength in his legs had gone.

“No,” he whispered. His monotone voice wavered.

The contents of the bowl overflowed onto the shrine, creating a curtain of putrid slime. A cold snap. His leg was now radiating a sharp sensation into his throat. He looked down to find a giant serpent wrapped around his leg, the other half peering under the altar as the bowl of bile cascaded over its scales.

“Behold,” the voice said.

Shota looked up-

In the corner of the shrine, blanketed in a veil of shadows, was a head with imposing amber eyes and long raven hair. The body of the head jutted out of the shadows and wrapped around the shrine, ultimately tapering off on Shota’s leg. The serpent must’ve been over twenty feet long.

As he gazed into the eyes of the head, his faith dissipated in moments. The anxiety stabbed his body in every major organ. His thoughts were no longer his own while his head was filled with the sanguinary nature of the serpent’s will. His heart and body gave under the stress, but the serpent caught him before he could collapse, wrapping its great tail around his neck.

“Your faith is weak. And your Gods have forfeited your soul.”

The tail tightened around Shota’s neck, completely cutting off all air to the lungs. His last coherent thought in the malice that shrouded his mind was acknowledgment of the serpent’s words. His faith was indeed weak and he deserved to be cast aside. Though there was a small layer of truth that whispered otherwise, it was too late to clammer for it. The overwhelming feeling of despair and hopelessness crept into his bulging eyeballs.

The serpent sent Shinto’s head crashing into the purification bowl, submerging him in the bile. As his body took in the rank liquid, he willed one last prayer: That his soul find peace and that he be forgiven for his weak faith…

Days later, when Ryo heard no word of a priest cloaked in black returning to the port, he set out to find him. What he found was a perturbed sight. Shota kneeling before the shrine with his head bobbing in a bowl of shallow purified water. He’d drowned himself.