Swords v. Cthulhu

The Dan no Uchi Horror Remy Nakamura

Takeda Inochinomi, Arakage’s daughter, knelt in the mud. In final position for seppuku, the point of her tanto dagger hovered, ready to strike. The blade quivered, swaying with her breathing like an edgy viper.

Honor. This was the way of the warrior. Her father’s way. He died with such honor. She served as his second, beheaded him with a powerful stroke. Ended his agony as his intestines spilled over his tanto. In her mind’s eye, his head came to a stop, glaring at her. Honor, his eyes rebuked her.

Night crept closer, the forest bleeding shadows, heavy rain and the altar-like mountain of Dan no Uchi conspiring with her pursuers. So close to her uncle’s monastery, and she had no light. She could barely see her weapons — her naginata, a bamboo bow, a nearly empty quiver — just an arm’s reach away. The lead scouts would catch her first. Perhaps the half-demons could see in the dark. Or track her like hounds. No choice. No hope.

She focused her mind inwardly on the image of Amida, washed with gold. She mouthed the mantra, Namu Amida Butsu. Praise Amida Buddha. Inhaled smells of rain, wet earth, and damp decay. Her hands steadied, but then her father’s head replaced the Buddha’s, blood oozing, staining the statue’s lustrous neck. Honor.

She looked up at the apparition that seemed to hover before her, glowing in the deepening night.

“Honor,” she whispered. “If you had honor, we’d have died fighting. Side by side.” Her words flowed with measured force, parrying his look of condemnation. “If you had honor, we’d have built a mound of corpses around us with our blades. The priests would sing of our last stand, father and daughter.”

The gruesome vision began to fade.

“If you had honor, your daughter would not be kneeling half-naked in the mud, with no light, no second to end her suffering.”

She opened her hands. Dropped the knife.

The ghost was gone. Hot tears mixed with cold rain. She wiped them away. Pulled her kimono back up over her arms and chest. Tightened her sash. Groped in the dark for her dagger.

“I could be your second!”

Inochinomi stood, tanto pointed outward. A girl’s voice.

“I’ve never chopped a head off.” Same voice, different location. She turned to face it. Strained to listen through the wind and heavy rain. It sounded like a girl. “Not a human’s head, at least. Certainly not a woman’s!” Cheerful.

“Who are you?” Inochinomi asked. Strove to keep her voice calm. Spoke with authority. “What are you?”

“Sounds like you’re not going through with it. Shame. What kind of sick mind dreamed up seppuku, anyway? Maximum pain, gutting yourself like a fish. This is honor?” Amusement.

“Answer me,” Inochinomi demanded.

“Careful now, I’m handing you your naginata. They’ll be here in moments. Down the path. Can’t you smell them?”

The handle tapped Inochinomi’s left shoulder. She gripped it. Relaxed into the familiar heft and texture. A lifeline for a drowning warrior. She had to trust this stranger. At least for now.

“Ready yourself,” said the girl. “I’ll help you see.”

Inochinomi hesitated.

Then waves of stench assaulted her senses, punching through the rain. Excrement, bile, and rancid meat. The reek sparked memories. Her brothers and cousins speared, dying. Her family’s retainers screaming. Her father’s hasty preparations to gut himself, calling her to his side. Handing her his katana.

The stink of hell. Of her family’s demonic assassins. And through the rain, the sounds of bestial sniffing, of claws on slick grit. Inochinomi assumed battle stance. Gripped her naginata with both hands. Faced the darkness.

“Shut your eyes,” the strange girl shouted. A clack, the smell of burning sulfur, a flare of sparks. Inochinomi caught a flash of a girl clad in white, like a ghost, before she shut her eyes tight.

Several explosions followed. The pops deafened Inochinomi, the flashes painfully bright even through her eyelids. She swept her gaze from pitch-blackness to a geyser of green sparks. In the distance, a beast fled, panicked, its impossibly tall rider bouncing wildly. In the mud, another horse-beast screamed and writhed, something burning, sizzling in its guts. This horse had slime-skin and the teeth and claws of a tiger. Its masked rider scrambled up on strangely jointed legs. One of its long, ape-like arms reached for its waist, and Inochinomi heard the metallic rattle of chains.

The devils stank like a battlefield in the sun.

Inochinomi tried not to gag. Ignored the taiko pounding of her heart. She wanted to rage. These assassins had destroyed everything she loved. She controlled herself. Buried memory. Forced out even her desire to live. There was only her opponent, this battle, this moment. Her naginata was a part of her, the pole a part of her arms, the blade her claws. She advanced.

When the demon whipped his weighted chain to catch her pole sword, she was ready. Feinted, flicked her weapon out of the way. Followed with a rapid swipe to the creature’s chest. It staggered back, then fell. She skewered the hellish being, leaning into the weapon to finish it off.

She nearly let go when serpentine things burst through the chest and waist of its black garb. Eel-like appendages grabbed desperately at the pole arm. She chopped the body until the writhing tentacles quieted. As they stilled, the round-toothed lamprey mouths at their ends rasped one word in unison:

“Oneechan.” Big sister.

As the eerie green flare sputtered out, the bodies of both demonic rider and steed dissolved into gelatinous masses, sticky with mucus. Inochinomi’s vomit mixed with the foul remains as the rain fought to wash both away.ˇ

The strange girl produced a pitch torch from a waterproof woven basket she wore strapped to her back. It struggled against the rain and dark to cast a feeble flicker.

“The devil that escaped will be back,” Inochinomi said as she gathered her weapons. “With others.”

“I heard the chain,” the girl said. “It wanted you alive.” She sounded intrigued.

Now that Inochinomi had light within reach, she wanted to take it and run. She took a deep breath. “I’m in your debt.”

“Call me Mizuko,” the girl said, lighthearted. Unfazed by the attack. And the stench.

“Mizuko,” said Inochinomi. Water-girl. “Strange name for one carrying so much fire.”

“The people of Dan no Uchi used to produce most of the fireworks in this region,” said Mizuko. “People buy the ones from the capital now, but the villagers keep making them.”

Inochinomi took the offered torch.

Mizuko was a young woman, about Inochinomi’s age. She wore the white tunic and trousers of a yamabushi, a mountain ascetic, as well as the tooth and claw, bone and beak rosary of the itako, a blind medium. Mizuko poked at their attacker’s melting corpse with a thin staff. She squatted. Scooped mucus into a small lacquer box. Wiped her hands in the mud, then stood.

Inochinomi shuddered, but guided the medium’s hand to her shoulder. Mizuko thanked her.

They plodded up the slope toward the ancient monastery of Dan no Uchi, and the village that spilled around it and over the edges of the tableland. Mizuko spoke in whispers. Dan no Uchi, Within the Altar or Platform, got its name from the mountain’s abrupt, wide summit. It was as though some old god had beheaded the mountain, perhaps to create a giant table for feasting. Or an altar for sacrifice.

Inochinomi peered into the darkness for her pursuers. The torchlight transformed the forest, so that they were surrounded by clutching, wavering, limbed shadows. Mizuko looked more ghostly than human. Black hair unbound, wild and free. Pale skin, almost glowing against the night. White robe, plastered against her slim chest. Feet hidden.

The forest appeared to be slowly devouring the village. They first encountered the skeletal remains of huts, then homes consumed from within by weeds and from without by close-growing branches. Vines smothered even a crossroads statue of the Bodhisattva Jizo.

The monastery itself was lit, a fortress against the night.

Mizuko halted her careful shuffle. “I’m not welcome here,” she said.

“I’ll tell him you saved my life,” Inochinomi protested. “How will you get home?”

“Dan no Uchi is my home,” Mizuko said. “I’ll be fine. But you, samurai, you’ll be in danger at the monastery. Please, come with me!”

“I’m sorry,” Inochinomi said. She wanted to follow. She could not. Instead she brought Mizuko’s fingers up to touch her face. They stayed that way for a long moment.

Mizuko slowly brought her hand away. She followed the tip of her staff into the night.

Big monks guarded the high, backlit gate. She noted two archers, arrows nocked. Nerves on edge. The gate opened. She entered the brightly lit courtyard, squinted. Nearly two dozen lanterns burned.

The worship hall stood open. The man-sized statue, washed with gold, shone serenely, brilliantly. For all of Dan no Uchi’s remoteness, this hollow lacquered Buddha was famous. Holy. Namu Amida Butsu. Hope returned. Hell could be stopped here. A middle-aged man stepped into her line of sight.

“Uncle,” she nearly shouted, but checked herself. Then, “Abbot Uesugi.” She bowed low.

“Inochan,” he stepped forward. Navigating around her weapons, he embraced her mud-splattered body. She must reek of travel and fear and battle with the unholy. He looked sad.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry?” How could he know?

“Your father is dead. Why else would you be here, alone?” His shoulders slumped. “And I fear that soon we will all be dead.”

“Uncle, what do you mean? You have the best fighting monks in the domain. And you have him,” she said, motioning toward the central altar. Wind buffeted the twin pillars of incense smoke.

They stood, gazing at the shining Buddha. The old abbot finally spoke.

“Even the Bodhisattvas and ancient kami cannot stand against old gods who were here before them, and who will be here when they have rotted, and the memories of their memories have evaporated.”

She stared at him, felt hope bleed out.

Seeing her expression, he sighed. “But I’m not powerless against such. Old knowledge runs in our family. Your father knew that when he married my sister.”

He refused to elaborate, but called for an initiate to lead her to the guest chamber.

The rain stopped the next day. Inochinomi told her uncle and his assistants what she could of the ambush on her father’s garrison, and her narrow escape. She did not speak of her father’s hara-kiri.

No one exhibited the calm she expected of holy men. Agitated monks hurried around Inochinomi, preparing for attack. She knelt in the great hall before the statue of Amida Buddha. She tried meditating, but her skin prickled. The cold dry air choked, oppressed. Even Amida seemed to peek nervously between his eyelids, the stains in the wood like streaks of sweat and tears.

When night finally came, the courtyard was again bright with lantern light, and the walls and gates had been reinforced. Twenty-seven seasoned sohei, warrior monks, paced about in breast armor, naginata and iron clubs at the ready. Seven more stood on the walls, nervously plucking at their bowstrings. Others knelt in yellow robes, grinding rosaries between their palms, chanting sutras.

She cornered her uncle. “Where would you like me? I’m the equal of any man here.”

He gestured to a far corner of the monastery. “There are two secret exits there,” he said. He cut off her protest with a gesture and continued angrily. “I’m risking the lives of my followers to protect you. You will do as I say.” His face filled with sadness, affection. “My sister’s daughter. Find the itako. I don’t like her, but if we fail, she may be your only hope. I fear weapons won’t stop this foe, Inochan.”

Inochinomi woke to a tremendous crash. From her hiding place near the escape route, she could see that the gate and the surrounding wall had exploded into splinters. Screams and snarls filled her ears. Death marched ahead of a group of masked devils. Lanterns burst before their advance, warrior monks hurled this way and that by some invisible force. Cold fear poured into Inochinomi’s heart.

The courtyard became a scene from a hell scroll. Burning wood. Cooking flesh. That hatefully familiar stench of rotting corpses. The terrified cries of dying men. Desperate shouted orders. Beastly growls and whimpers. Tentacles and ape-like arms grappling with iron staffs. Strangest of all, the path of destruction leading to the main worship hall, as if an elephant from distant India trampled friend and foe alike.

The line of chanting monks fell to that unseen force. Their bodies were thrown or smashed, blood spreading into yellow robes. Her uncle stood alone in front of Amida. He trembled, but recited words of power. Then he pointed and shouted a mystical command. The air shimmered in front of him…

Then he shrieked, interrupting his own incantation.

Inochinomi was certain that she had died, that she was in the worst of the Five Hundred Hells. Through the blurred veil of the abbot’s spell, a demonic juggernaut roared. Sprouting out of a mass of elephantine legs, writhing tentacles, and remora mouths was a torso topped with an oversized human head.

The hell-thing snarled in pain. Slime-covered tentacles caught the abbot. He struggled to continue his chant. The demon-beast slowly turned. A moment before the foul creature battered the statue of Amida with her uncle’s body, Inochinomi caught a brief glimpse of its hideous face. She saw what must have so terrified her uncle.

That monstrous face had Uesugi features. Her uncle’s high forehead and thin lips. Her mother’s light brown, almost amber eyes. Features Inochinomi shared. She collapsed to her knees, the revelation like a physical blow. The creature faded from visibility, but continued to stomp through the courtyard, slapping the ground with her uncle’s corpse. Her chest grew tight, and no breath seemed to bring enough air.

Reflexively, she began to chant. Namu. Her uncle’s head cracking on the statue. Amida. The creature’s familiar face.

She stopped chanting.

She breathed, deliberately. She felt for the hidden latches in the rear wall. Crawled through the small gates. Pulled her weapons through. She was outside the monastery.

“Inochinomi?” Mizuko’s quiet voice penetrated the haze of night and shock. Inochinomi felt a small, rough hand grasp for hers.

Even without her sight, Mizuko was an expert guide. She led them through the starlight, along crisscrossing animal paths. When Inochinomi asked where they were bound, Mizuko simply said, “home.” Inochinomi wanted to run. Far, far away. But they would find her. She knew this. Maybe even seppuku was no escape. Perhaps they could follow her into death. Find her hiding in hell.

The gray of dawn diffused slowly into the forest. The world seemed ethereal. Balanced halfway between dark and light. They descended a narrow, steep path into a glen. A tall, thin waterfall fed a clear, rock-lined pool. The mist penetrated Inochinomi’s nose and mouth, clearing the lingering stench and smoke. At the water’s edge, Mizuko put down her staff. Undressed.

“What are you doing?” Inochinomi whispered. “There’s no time.”

“This is my haven,” the wild medium said. “We’re safe here. For the moment.” Her feet slid into the pool. “I wash and meditate here every morning, summer or winter. You should join me.”

Mizuko walked under the waterfall, fingers entwined in a mudra of power. The gray light and white water washed over the young woman. Her pale skin shone. In this sanctuary, she seemed not of this world; no mere peasant mystic.

Inochinomi stripped her stinking, travel-stained clothes. Stepped into the water. Gasped as if struck. Hesitated, then moved forward. When she reached Mizuko, the shaman smiled, then stepped to one side. Inochinomi stepped into the flow. The cold water both pricked and numbed her flesh. Her breathing quickened, like a small, frightened animal’s. She tried to copy the medium’s gesture, but Mizuko felt for Inochinomi’s hands. Gently stacked one on top of the other. Palms faced up, collecting the purifying water.

When she emerged, Inochinomi could not stop her arms and knees from shaking. “I’m so cold,” she said, teeth chattering.

Ordered chaos reigned in Mizuko’s hut. Claw and shell rosaries hanging from the low ceiling. Drying mandrake and ginseng root. Talismans of crow feathers and fox paws. Columns of smooth river stones before a tiny statue of Jizo. Clay pots of herbs and incense in a corner.

Mizuko rolled out rice straw bedding on the dirt floor. Sat the shivering Inochinomi down. Wrapped her in blankets. Mizuko added wood to the central pit. Stoked buried coals into a warming fire. The medium spooned Inochinomi a hot porridge of millet and mountain vegetables. They shared a cup of weak tea.

Mizuko removed her robes. Joined Inochinomi under the covers. Pressed her warmth against Inochinomi’s icy skin. Rubbed heat back into her flesh. Back into her heart.

Mizuko gently pushed Inochinomi onto her back. Straddled her. Touched her with lips and fingertips. Hair and scalp. Forehead and eyelids. Cheeks and lips. Making slow progress down her body.

Inochinomi forced herself into this moment. She cut off her past as if with her naginata. Sliced away memories. Home. Father. Mother. Cousins. Brothers. Gone.

She struck at her hopeless future. So many fears. Death. Dread. Demons. The unknown.

She cut them down. Stepped over them.

Eyes closed, she took in the world. The rising crescendo of their breathing. Mizuko’s fingers moving within her. The hint of saltiness on Mizuko’s lips. The sight of this spectral, holy mountain woman above her, hair wild, skin pale. The umami aroma of the earth and damp forest. Sweet herbal smells within the hut. The musk of Mizuko’s skin and her own sex. She arched into Mizuko’s rough hands. Then, in one motion, Inochinomi flipped her lover over and made violent love to her.

Inochinomi awoke alone. Steam rose from a black iron kettle. The sun was high above the smoke hole.

She found inexplicable things in the hut. A badger’s head. Well-worn figurines of fish and squid with the features of men. Foreign scripts carved into wooden blocks.

Someone approached. She put these down. Picked up her tanto.

Mizuko followed her staff into the hut.

“You slept well,” Mizuko said. She smiled. Nervous. “I spoke with a woodcutter. Your enemies are still in the monastery. They’re not looking for you.”

“Not yet,” Inochinomi said. Did Mizuko seem frightened? “I should leave. Soon. I’m a danger to you, your village.”

Mizuko said nothing. She selected a bowl. She counted her pots and baskets. Pulled herbs from this one, a powder from that, rubbing and sniffing each. She mixed these with hot water. Knelt before Inochinomi, holding it out to her, an offering.

Inochinomi took the warm bowl. She was leery but dismissed it. Mizuko had saved her, cleansed her, healed her. Made love to her. She sipped carefully, then drank deep. Bitter, but immediately soothing.

Mizuko turned her head. Listened carefully.

Inochinomi wanted to slip back into the bedding. Her body felt heavy. Sleep. Rest.

She made to spring out of bed. Stumbled instead. Fell to her knees, then struggled to the door.

“Why?” she slurred.

“I have to protect my village, samurai.” Mizuko’s voice was deep with sadness. “I’m sorry.”

Inochinomi stopped at the doorway. Through blurring vision, she saw two strong peasants step cautiously out of the surrounding forest. She slumped to the ground.

Inochinomi woke, gagging. The stench was familiar, stronger. The charnel smell of putrefying corpses. Vomit.

She lay on her side, on worn wood. Rough rope bound her wrists.

A demonic choir rumbled chants. The higher pitch of a woman’s voice wound around their syllables, bound them. Set Inochinomi’s teeth on edge.

With effort, she opened her eyes. She faced the monastery courtyard. She was on the raised veranda of the worship hall, one high step above the ground. A dozen of the half-demons worshipped, kneeling on blood patches in the gravel. They rocked their bodies in rhythm to the deep bass of the chant. Their waist tentacles protruded, swaying like catfish feelers.

From a wide gap in the center of the courtyard came the lowest voice. The wood vibrated, as if the building trembled to hear it.

Mizuko had been her last hope.

“She betrayed me,” she said. Surprised.

“Poor blind girl had no choice,” a woman spoke from behind her. Cheerful. “I killed a family each hour until she delivered you.”

A figure in red-lacquered armor stepped over Inochinomi. Squatted low. Hair wild. Smiled with her uncle’s broad smile.

“Inochan,” the woman said. “You’re with me now. Good morning!”

“Mother,” Inochinomi said. Like a curse. Takeda Yonomi.

Her mother held the other end of the rope that bound her. She yanked Inochinomi up to a sitting position. Mother bent over daughter, face close. The unholy monotone continued, a slow heartbeat.

“You left us,” Inochinomi said.

“I swore I’d come back for you. Mother keeps her promises!”

“You came back to kill me.”

“To kill you?” Her mother’s brow furrowed. “Never! Dear Inochinomi, daughter of my womb and breast, how could you even think such a thing?”

“You killed everyone! Sent assassins after me, and that giant hell-beast!”

“Assassins? Beast? Oh! You mean my sons!” She laughed.

“Your sons?” Inochinomi felt the blood drain from her face.

“Inochan, meet your half brothers,” her mother said with obvious pride. She gestured behind her. “You can’t see Little Brother, of course. He’s stuck halfway between worlds, but that will change. Soon!”

Inochinomi recoiled. Tried to slow her panicked breathing, to calm her racing heart.

Her mother leaned forward and grasped the back of Inochinomi’s head with subtle strength. Their foreheads nearly touched. Mother’s pupils half-hid muddy irises. Her armor had the bite of stale sweat.

“Inochan, Inochan,” she said, wide eyes filling with tears. “How I love you.” Her grip on her daughter’s hair tightened painfully.

“Inochinomi, Daughter,” she whispered. “You’re getting married today! And not to a mere man, but to a great kami, one older, more powerful than Amida and Amaterasu!”

Repulsion, fear, anger exploded within Inochinomi. She aimed the crown of her head into her mother’s nose and launched herself forward. They fell from the veranda to the courtyard. Her mother, still gripping Inochinomi’s hair, twisted in mid-air so that Inochinomi took the fall, landing on her back. The closest demon shifted its position, continued its drone.

Yonomi landed with one foot on each side of Inochinomi. Her mother leaned over her, blood dripping from her nose onto Inochinomi’s face.

“Oh, that’s my daughter!” She laughed again. “My lover will be so delighted!” In spite of Inochinomi’s panicked struggle, Yonomi grabbed her daughter with inhuman strength.

“My darling little child,” her mother said. She carried Inochinomi back into the worship hall, a mother carrying a child throwing a tantrum. “It’s all right. You don’t know anything yet. I didn’t understand, and I summoned him, offered my body to him.”

Yonomi shuddered, sighed. “Such pleasure,” she breathed. “Such pain. Unfortunately, I’m done now, Inochan. I started too late… But you! You’re still young. You could raise an army. He —” she motioned her head toward the altar “— requires consorts to seed the world with his children. Maybe someday he’ll come all the way through himself. But until then, you could unite and rule Nippon under the Takeda banner!”

Yonomi dropped Inochinomi on the floor before the golden statue of Amida. Her mother threw the rope over a ceiling beam. Pulled on the rope, raising Inochinomi painfully by her wrists. Tied the other end to a support column. Inochinomi stood before the altar, stretched toward heaven, like an offering.

“The children grow fast,” her mother said. “Little Brother grew up fastest of all! Don’t worry, we’ll find other consorts to help you. You’ll birth a swarm in no time.”

Her uncle’s worship hall had transformed into a temple of nightmares. The dying sunlight poured blood-red into the room. On the floor, a series of calligraphic circles. Old Hànzì from China. Sanskrit from further ago still. Strange symbols with animal heads. Staring at them brought vertigo. The statue of Amida wore Yonomi’s brother’s blood. Blackened cheek. Splatter across its chest, like a sash. Disturbing scripts appeared to crawl across its face and hands and feet. No longer serene. Tortured.

She turned away from the horror. Her hideous half brothers prayed behind her in the courtyard. Her weapons lay heartbreakingly close, on the veranda. Her mother meditated within a smaller circle. Knelt over burning incense. Cupped the smoke with her hands. Drew it toward her face. Inochinomi inhaled a thread of the bitter smoke. Her head spun, and the room seemed to expand and contract at the same time.

The largest circle contained only Inochinomi and the bloody Buddha. Animal terror hovered on the edges of Inochinomi’s mind.

Breathe. A strand of smoke snaked past her face. Hold. When it moved away, she breathed again. She all but hung from the ceiling. But her feet were free. She could step, hop.

Her mother began to chant, eyes closed, face ecstatic. Liquid, hissing syllables rose above the bass pulse from the courtyard. Together they summoned and seduced. Inochinomi’s heart beat faster. Blood in her head and groin throbbed. She spun to face the statue.

Under its carved wooden robes, Amida’s skin began to ripple. The torso expanded and contracted. Yonomi’s voice crescendoed.

The not-Buddha opened its eyes. The Void stared out at her.

Inochinomi stared back. She could not look away.

“Namu Amida Butsu,” she said. A eulogy.

There was no past, no future. There was only this moment, a rope, and her enemies.

She turned, took two short steps, and launched herself into the air above her mother. Seizing the rope above her bindings, she swung back around. At the end of the rope’s arc, she hooked the statue’s head with her feet. Pulled herself closer. Gripped the idol powerfully with her thighs. If she could, she would smother it. Crush it to dust.

She heaved it off the altar. The hollow statue lifted with surprising ease. But when she started her backward swing, its weight yanked her down. Rope bit into her wrists. Wrenched her shoulders.

She dragged the defiled idol into her mother. It scraped within that smaller circle. The statue fell forward into Yonomi’s entranced embrace. Her mother lay back. Wrapped her legs around it. Arching into it. Inochinomi looked away.

Suddenly, bright flashes lit the darkened hall like multicolored lightning. Explosive pops and cracks in the courtyard. The battle cries of peasants. Acrid gunpowder smell.

Voices. “I understand. Cut her down and untie her.” Mizuko issued commands. A middle-aged peasant man cut her rope with a sickle. Worked at her knot. Leapt into the courtyard, yelling, waving his sickle.

“Samurai, my people are dying,” Mizuko said. “If I bring the great demon fully into this world, can you kill him?”

No apology. No gratitude. Only this battle. Inochinomi rubbed her wrists.

“I think so,” Inochinomi said. She retrieved her weapons. Stood on the veranda, between what remained of Yonomi and the battle. “But what about my mother? She stopped chanting, but —”

“No time!” Mizuko shouted. She clasped bone and claw between flat palms. Beads of blood dripped along the rosary. In the courtyard, invisible tentacles tore a farmer in half. The man who had helped cut Inochinomi down lay crushed, chest flattened under an invisible foot.

Inochinomi cleared her mind.

Mizuko began her incantation. The air shimmered. The louder she chanted, the more the hell-beast solidified. It turned to face them.

From that giant abomination sprouted a hideous version of her uncle’s face. Her mother’s face. Her own face. It bellowed. Charged them. Stampeded peasant defenders and one of its masked, devilish brothers. The earth shook.

There was only her breath. Her enemy. Her arrow. Time stopped.

Inochinomi let the arrow fly. It flew into that tunnel of a mouth. The beast stumbled to a stop. A shriek.

“Mother,” it gurgled. “Father!” Barely words.

A second shot to its left eye. She dropped her bow. Leapt in with her naginata.

“Yog Sothoth,” it shrieked. “Help!”

She butchered the beast. Took her time.

Mizuko called for her. Inochinomi climbed back up the temple steps.

The idol was gone. Her mother wrapped her arms and legs around a statue-shaped nothingness. Deeper and darker than the blackness between the stars.

It called to Inochinomi. Seductive. She took a step forward.

Then Mizuko’s cold hand grasped hers. Firm. Inochinomi closed her eyes, returned the grip.

More fireworks exploded from somewhere behind them. Their world flickered as the Void collapsed in on itself. Her mother lay still. Her face frozen. In extreme pleasure. And pain.

“She had no more life to give,” Mizuko said. She nudged the frozen corpse with her foot. “Just her own.”

Inochinomi turned her back on her mother’s corpse. Still held Mizuko’s hand. Rainbow sparks poured into the courtyard.

Dan no Uchi burned. It had been an ugly village, but it died beautifully.

For Inochinomi, there was only this moment.