YUKI ONNA: SNOW WOMAN
by Nene Adams © 2004 - All rights reserved
(Commissioned by Mary Pardo for the Buy-a-Bard Auction II; archived here by her kind permission)

“I breathe in the cool incense smoke from the metal brazier,
While thinking about a poem for my dear friend Lu Wa.
My sandalwood-hearted companion spits out plum blossoms of smoke,
Looking like the cloudy fog of the other world.
Perhaps it's the soul of my friend the old mountain man
In the smoke's dense patterns.” --- Kan Po (memoriam)

~~~~xooo0ooox~~~

Wind howled, bringing with it pellets of hard snow that stung like thrown stones when they struck the face and hands. More snow was heaped in smoothly rounded banks on the sides of the Chrysanthemum Road. The surface of the road itself was clear, kept that way by stones bearing Shinto spells that lined the track as it meandered over fields and forests and mountains. Branches of pine trees overhanging the sides of the road were laden with snow and ice, a dripping burden that dipped and swayed as the storm grew in strength and viciousness.

Ichijo Ayumi and Fujiwara no Kimiko struggled along side-by-side, bent nearly double against the wind. Both women wore heavy quilted kimonos and hakama; their calves were bulky with knotted cloths, and scarves were wrapped around their heads under straw hats. For additional protection, Ayumi and Kimiko were wrapped in mino, peasant-style cloaks made of layers of hay and straw.

It was still cold enough to make their teeth chatter.

Astonishingly, the sky was clear and the moon shone blue-white against the snow and the mountains and the trees. At this elevation, the wind was sharp enough to cut through their layered clothing like a barber’s razor. Plumes of breath-smoke issued from the women’s mouths. Kimiko blinked snow from her eyelashes and took a firmer grip on her walking staff.

The furoshiki pack on her back was heavy and getting heavier by the moment. She felt frozen to the core, as though there had never been anything in the world except snow and wind and ice. Her bones ached; her muscles burned. Kimiko dreamed of hot tea and rice, sweet potatoes in broth, chewy udon noodles and dumplings and soy-simmered bean curd. She dreamed of warmth, of steam curling from the spout of an iron kettle, of the scent of burning charcoal in a bronze brazier. Kimiko sighed and smiled, thinking about soaking in the scalding waters of a hot tub – heat, glorious heat, melting her flesh until the sheer pleasure of it wrung involuntary whimpers from her throat…

A stinging smack across her cheek made Kimiko gasp and open her eyes.

The only thing she could see of Ayumi’s face, muffled as it was in a scarf, was the samurai’s dark eyes. Kimiko blinked again, confused. White flurries snatched at her cropped black hair; her hat was gone. She was laying on her back in a snowbank with no idea how she had gotten there. Cold crept under her skin until she was shivering.

“Get up!” Ayumi screamed, raising her voice to be heard over the wind. “You cannot sleep. We must go on!”

Kimiko’s jaw-splitting yawn took her by surprise. “I’m tired,” she whispered.

Ayumi’s hand drew back and rushed forward in a blur. The impact against her face rocked Kimiko’s head backwards. “On your feet!” Ayumi commanded. She grabbed Kimiko’s arm and heaved, putting her weight into it.

Impelled by the samurai’s strength, Kimiko rose from the snowbank and sagged limply in Ayumi’s embrace. “Tired,” she repeated. She was no longer shivering. “So tired…”

“We must go on!”

“No,” Kimiko protested weakly. “Sleepy.”

No longer hazy, the blue-white moonlight sharpened to crystalline clarity. The wind died; an unnatural silence descended over the scene. Glittering snow and ice and eerie light was punctuated by shadows huddled here and there against the banks like wild animals curled nose-to-tail. A yawping wail cut through the stillness; Kimiko identified it as a fox. The sound cut off abruptly, which made the renewed silence all the more deafening. An owl flew soundlessly through the air, all soft feathers and a brilliant golden gaze.

In the space between one eye-blink and the next, a woman appeared.

She was beyond beautiful; she was perfect in the way that a hina doll was perfect, without a single blemish to mar the porcelain paleness of her oval face. Her eyes were narrow black slits; her eyebrows had been shaved off to leave her brow smooth. The woman’s aquiline nose led straight to a kou-itten mouth, the center of the lips touched with scarlet to emphasize delicacy and femininity. False eyebrows were smudged close to her hairline in the style of the imperial court. Her lips parted in a tiny smile, showing black-stained teeth.

Her knee-length hair was worn long and straight, caught up at the sides with paulownia wood combs. The woman’s kimonos were completely white – shocking, really, since white was considered the color of death and mourning. She did not so much walk as she glided over the surface of the snow. It took Kimoko’s ice-muddled mind a moment to realize that the strange woman did not leave any footprints or sandal tracks behind her. Even then, the realization meant nothing. She was flying away, lighter than owl feathers, flying to the moon where it was warm…

Someone was shaking her. Kimiko’s teeth rattled. She did not care.

“Sleepy…”

The woman’s kimono hem did not drag on the ground. Nevertheless, little snow flurries billowed with each step she took. The moon cast indigo highlights in the fluttering fringes of her hair and turned the hollows in her cheekbones blue. Her outer kimono was striped with an irregular pattern of cerulean light. As she came closer, the woman pursed her lips as if she was going to give Kimiko a kiss.

Kimiko closed her eyes and turned her face to the side.

Yuki Onna – the Woman of the Snows, the storm spirit of the mountains – would kiss her with that cold, cold kou-itten mouth and steal her soul. The tiny rational part of her mind shrieked against her surrender, but Kimiko was too exhausted to muster the energy to fight. She was sorry that her samurai would be left alone, sorry for the things left undone and unsaid, but she was so very, very tired. All Kimiko wanted to do was rest…

And Ayumi let her fall.

Kimiko landed with a thump on the road; the pain racing up her spine momentarily overwhelmed her desire to sleep.

Ayumi’s katana cleared the scabbard in a flash of moonlight on steel. The samurai whirled about on her heel, aiming a cut at Yuki Onna’s head. The woman simply flowed out of the way and continued her inexorable progress towards Kimiko, who finally sensing the danger she was in, began to inch backwards, scraping her buttocks along the road surface. Ayumi was not done, however. Face set in a grimace, she chopped at the storm spirit, striking from the hip, and again, Yuki Onna avoided the blows.

Snarling openly, Ayumi swung the katana in an overhand arc of jodan no kamae that changed direction, striking towards the storm spirit’s arm. The blade connected, tearing through Yuki Onna’s kimono sleeve and into the flesh beneath.

There was a sound like shattering glass, and Ayumi’s katana shivered into a thousand needles of ice-rimed steel.

Shock, horror and disbelief chased across the samurai’s crooked-nosed face. Ayumi stared at the jagged stump of the sword in her hand, her mouth dropping open in an expression that might have been comical under less serious circumstances. Kimiko could only watch helplessly as Yuki Onna’s perfect porcelain face cracked and crackled, rearranging itself into a frown worthy of a kabuki mask. The spirit’s breath exhaled in a cloud of blue-tinged frost that enveloped Ayumi until the samurai’s squat muscular figure was entirely consumed and hidden from view.

Kimiko screamed in denial and scrambled to her feet, energized by the eminent threat to her lover. The hay cloak shredded around her, ripped apart by her haste to save Ayumi. Kimiko wrenched herself towards the storm spirit, hands outstretched, scream after scream of rage and apprehension torn from somewhere deep in her soul. Glimpsed through the cold blue fog, the figures of Ayumi and Yuki Onna came together and dissolved into one… which disappeared quietly, without fanfare except a billow of snowflakes.

She burst through the dissipating cloud, her frantic motions turning the mist into tattered blue wisps. Kimiko keened like a wounded animal, searching for any trace of her samurai or the creature that had taken her. There was nothing to be found, aside from the relatively small sections of snow that Ayumi had churned up.

Ayumi was gone.

Despair drove Kimiko to her knees, heedless of the sharp splinters of steel on the road all around her.

The wind began to blow again.

A fox yawped and wailed in the distance as the hunting owl floated silently through the moonlit sky.

~~~~xooo0ooox~~~

“When the gods hurl dung, grow rice!”

Kimiko raised her head. She had been struggling along the road, each step more difficult than the last. The freezing air bit harshly into her lungs. Her muscles trembled with the effort of forcing herself to move. She had paused for a moment – just a single moment, Buddha willing – to rest beneath the outspread branches of a pine tree when a male voice had surprisingly issued from above.

She glanced up and met the slit-eyed gaze of a tengu.

The mountain goblin looked like a court official from the Imperial Palace of the Fragrant Trees. Perched just above the middle of his forehead, his tiny hexagonal yamabushi hat of black lacquered wood was held on by a red cord that tied under his chin. The tengu held a feathered fan; his sumptuous brocade kimono layers were slit in the back to allow his stubby crow’s wings to protrude. Like all mountain goblins of his tribe, his nose was uncommonly long and his face was bright red, punctuated by silver eyebrow tufts. He squatted on the branch easily, as unconcerned about the uncertainty of his perch as a bird.

“Konnichiwa, uncle!” Kimiko said through chattering teeth. It never paid to be impolite to tengu, who could be either helpful or mischievous, depending on their mood. “Thank you for the advice.”

The tengu fluttered to a lower pine branch and cocked his head at her. “You’re tolerably well spoken for a human child.”

Kimiko leaned against a nearby cryptomeria tree trunk and tried to catch her breath, but it was difficult with the wind blowing so briskly. The fact that her mino cloak had been destroyed did not help. There were still bits of straw and hay blowing along the road. “And you seem very friendly for a mountain goblin,” she replied.

The tip of his extraordinarily long nose quivered. The tengu made a gesture with his feather fan and the wind was cut off. Another gesture and a miniature whirlwind swirled into being. It danced over the road, gathering up the torn pieces of her cloak while Kimiko watched. A third gesture made the whirlwind weave the mino back together and deposit it at her feet before exploding in a shower of snow. Kimiko shook the snow from her hair and picked up the mended cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders and bowing to the tengu.

“Thank you, ojisama ,” Kimiko said. “It is regrettable that you can’t do the same thing for my friend’s sword.”

“Your friend the samurai?” the tengu asked, his little black eyes glittering. “Do you speak of your retainer Ichijo Ayumi, who is now a guest of Yuki Onna?”

Kimiko gasped. “Do you know where she is? Please, uncle, tell me!”

“Follow me!” the tengu cried, and hopped from his perch to the next tree, his stubby wings fluttering. He continued to hop from tree to tree while Kimiko stumbled on the ground, plowing her way through the snow, her gaze fixed on the bewinged mountain goblin with his miniscule hat and incredibly long nose.

Was Ayumi alive? Could she be still be saved from Yuki Onna? The barest shred of hope made Kimiko go on despite her exhaustion. While there was an ounce of blood and breath in her body, she would never give up the search for her beloved samurai. Would the capricious tengu help her in that quest? Kimiko was determined to do anything, even grovel and beg, to gain the creature’s supernatural aid.

The tengu led her deeper into the forest until they came to what looked like a wood-cutter’s hut. Kimiko went inside at the goblin’s invitation, wary yet relieved to be out of the cold. A fire burned in the central round hearth made of pounded earth, and heated an iron pot of red miso soup. She investigated the contents of a large covered bowl near the fire and found udon noodles in broth with yam cakes and mountain bracken. In spite of the freshly prepared food and the fire, the hut seemed otherwise unoccupied.

“Sit and eat, human child,” the tengu grumbled as he shuffled inside, shaking snow off his wings. “The story I must tell you is an important one.”

“Will you have a bowl of soup, uncle?” Kimiko asked politely. She helped the tengu remove his quilted outer kimono, then knelt and took off his wooden geta and wet tabi socks. Kimiko used a bronze ladle to scoop hot coals into a brazier and brought it to him as he sat cross-legged on a mat near the hearth. She also served him fragrant miso soup, curbing her own appetite as the heady scent made her stomach clench with hunger pangs.

The tengu patted her head as if she was, indeed, a favored niece. “Sit and eat,” he repeated, smiling benevolently. “There is time, Fujiwara no Kimiko.”

Obediently, she took the bowl of noodles and yam cakes. The first bite was heavenly, as was the second and third and fourth. In no time at all, Kimiko was startled to find the bowl was empty. At the tengu’s invitation, she continued the meal by drinking several bowls of miso broth, then made tea for them both, whisking the green macha powder into hot water from the kettle in the elegant manner she had learned at court.

Appetite satisfied, Kimiko looked sidelong at the tengu, wondering why he wanted to help her. It was not entirely unknown for the goblins to aid humankind. In her father’s generation, the Tengu King of Mt. Kutama had befriended the great warrior Minamoto Yoshitsue. For the most part, however, tengu preferred to mislead humans and play tricks on them, especially arrogant Buddhist priests.

“I have heard of your feud with the Regent of Wa,” the tengu said, turning his teacup around in his hands. “It occurs to me that we can help each other.”

Kimiko asked humbly, “How may I help you, uncle?”

He stared into the flames, his eyebrows and stubby wings occasionally twitching. “First, you should know there are two clans in these mountains – the Red and the Blue. I am Sagigake, leader of the Red Faces. My rival is Hyakutake, leader of the Blue Crows. The Blue Crows are allied with Yuki Onna, the Woman of the Snows. As a consequence, the Red Faces have suffered severe losses this winter… including my young daughter, Otome.”

Kimiko bowed her head in a wordless gesture of sympathy and support.

Sagigake continued, “Otome was taken by Hyakutake as a war-bride. I wish her to be returned to me. Since her mother’s death, I have come to cherish Otome greatly. If she had desired to be bonded to Hyakutake, I would have swallowed our rivalry for the sake of my daughter’s happiness. However, she is being held against her will and that I cannot abide.

“I would lead a sally of my remaining warriors against Blue Crow village but I cannot justify wasting such a force for the selfish reason of freeing my daughter. How can I, when so many Red Face sons and daughters have already been lost? You see my predicament.”

“I do, Sagigake-san. Again I ask – how may I help?”

“In a gorge nearby lives a witch who guards a magical golden naginata ,” the tengu said, turning to face her directly. “Forged from the fires of Amatsumara the smith god, this naginata is the only weapon that can defeat Yuki Onna. When the snow woman is no longer aiding the Blue Crows, my remaining warriors and I will attack the village and defeat Hyakutake once and for all.

“You must gain the naginata from Old Dragonfly the witch. It will be a contest of wits,” he said, “which I do not doubt a child of the Imperial court will win.”

Kimiko took a deep breath and leaned forward until her forehead touched the mat. “I will endeavor to succeed,” she said. Curiously, she felt no fear at the prospect of confronting a witch powerful enough to keep the tengu at bay. Shigata ga nai. What will be, will be; her fate, and the fate of her samurai, were in the gods’ hands. “And Ayumi?”

She felt rather than saw the smile blossom on his long-nosed face. “When you have the naginata, you must go to Yuki Onna’s house in the mountains and draw her into combat. I will make a new sword to safeguard your samurai’s soul. This will be a contest of wills – yours against the ancient Woman of the Snows – which I do not doubt the supremely obstinate nature of a human child in love will win.”

“Hai, uncle,” Kimiko said, rising from her bow. “I will not fail.”

His eyes glittered. “No, I suspect you will not,” he said. Reaching behind himself, he plucked a feather from his stubby wings, grunting at the momentary discomfort. “Hold this and say ‘haoto’ and you will be transported to wherever you will. Do not release your grip or you will fall to your death. If you lose the feather, you will be unable to find your way back here. Wakarimasu ka?”

“I understand,” she said, taking the mottled grey-and-white feather from the tengu. “Is there anything else I should know, ojisama?”

“Beware of Old Dragonfly,” Sagigake said. Firelight gleamed on his crimson face and turned his tufted eyebrows to purest silver. “She is very clever but she also has a cold nature.”

Kimiko squared her shoulders. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to rescue my retainer,” she said. “I am very grateful for your assistance.”

“You had better go, human child, for Old Dragonfly is waiting... as is your samurai lover.” With that, the tengu turned back to his contemplation of the fire and poured himself another bowl of miso soup.

Kimiko stepped outside and held the grey-and-white feather aloft. “Haoto!” she cried. Instantly, she was lifted from her feet and hurtled through the sky at a terrific rate of speed; the wind of her passage whipped her hair back and brought tears to her eyes. Her teeth clenched together until her jaw was aching. Kimiko’s grip on the feather never slackened. In a very few moments, she found herself alighting in a soft patch of snow in front of a house with a long veranda in the front.

She inhaled deeply a few times before thrusting the feather into her obi and calling loudly, “Old Dragonfly! I, Fujiwara no Kimiko, challenge you for the golden naginata!”

The shoji-door slid open and a white-haired woman stepped out onto the veranda. Her dark grey kimono was as plain as a nun’s robe. “I am Old Dragonfly. You are young, Fujiwara no Kimiko, to wish to depart this cherry blossom life.” At Kimiko’s involuntary start of surprise, the witch went on, “Oh, yes. If you fail to defeat me, your life is forfeit.”

Old Dragonfly rubbed a hand over her wrinkled, nut-brown face, which was flat as a plate except for the round bulb of her chin. “It has been many years since a pretty maid challenged me for possession of the naginata,” she went on. “I will steal your beauty, girl, before you die. I will feast on your youth.”

“So be it, but you must kill me first,” Kimiko said bravely, standing her ground as she imagined Ayumi might, if the bow-legged samurai had been present.

“Enter, young Fujiwara,” Old Dragonfly said, bowing. “It will be an honor to engage in a contest with someone of wit.”

Kimiko went into the witch’s house, which looked very ordinary except for the long, dark varnished wooden shaft of a naginata that was propped against the far wall. The blade was covered by a cloth, but even so, she could see through the fabric that it shimmered softly.

Old Dragonfly knelt on the tatami mats and gestured for Kimiko to kneel opposite her. The white-haired witch produced a bowl of sand and several sticks of first quality incense – the black, sweet, smoky type called Evening Plum. “I will ask you riddles for one stick of time,” she said, tying her sleeves out of the way with a green cord. “If you fail to answer, the contest is mine. If you answer all my riddles, young Fujiwara, then it will be your turn to ask and mine to answer for one stick of time. If you confound me, the contest is yours.”

“And if we are evenly matched?” Kimiko asked, pulling off her cloak and laying it aside. She arranged her kimono skirts neatly and smoothed her cropped black hair. She had left the furoshiki pack in its bamboo frame at the tengu’s hut. If she succeeded, there would be time to retrieve her belongings. If not… well, clothes and bags of bonito shavings and rice, a pot and a cracked ivory comb were no use to the dead.

“Then we will continue the contest until one of us emerges victorious,” Old Dragonfly said, unperturbed. Her glance was keen. She took an incense stick and lit it in a charcoal brazier, then stuck it upright in the sand bowl between them. “Soonest spoken, it is broken.”

Kimiko restrained her impulse to scoff at the simple riddle. “Silence,” she answered.

“Rash fools and reckless men I trap; dark woe is found in the dregs of pleasure.”

“Sake.” Kimiko had spent many a long hour in Katsura-no-Miyo, the Imperial palace, playing the game of riddles with other court ladies. There was very little else to do except compose poems and try to entertain one another through the long, dull hours between ceremonies and visits. She had prided herself on being clever; now that pride was being tested in the most serious fashion imaginable.

“No son will seek vengeance on my slayer when battle-foes encompass my death.”

That one caused Kimiko some thought. “A sword,” she finally answered. It was the custom during war that when one daimyo defeated another, the fallen man’s katana was ceremoniously broken and the pieces sent to a temple to be prayed over, lest the dead man’s spirit return as a vengeful hungry ghost.

And so it went, riddle after riddle – some simple, some much more complex and difficult to solve. Old Dragonfly never faltered. Incense smoke drifted up in a lazy spiral. Kimiko was sweating freely by the time the stick was burned down to ashes in the bowl.

Without ceremony, Old Dragonfly lit the second stick of incense.

Kimiko straightened her spine. “Mind my measure and feed me with a careful hand, for grim reward awaits one who would allow me to run wild.”

“Fire,” said the old witch with a broad grin that had nothing humorous in it.

“A man’s shoots onto the road while a woman’s sits alone.”

“Piss,” Old Dragonfly replied disdainfully.

“Only useful when I am full, yet full of holes am I,” Kimiko said.

“A fisherman’s net,” came the answer promptly.

And so it went, riddle after riddle, until the second stick of incense was reduced to ashes. Kimiko dabbed sweat from her brow with her sleeve. Her knees were aching, her back spiking with pain; her throat was dry and wisps of hair clung unpleasantly to her wet face and neck. Even her mind seemed to hurt at the effort she had been making. In contrast, Old Dragonfly appeared cool and perfectly composed.

The silver-haired witch produced another incense stick. “We will now take turns,” Old Dragonfly said.

Kimiko nodded in agreement. What else could she do? Her gaze strayed to the naginata – the weapon that would free Ayumi from Yuki Onna’s grasp. She had to have it. The only way to get it was by defeating Old Dragonfly.

“Born without a skin, when I come into this world I loudly fly away,” the witch said.

“A fart,” Kimiko answered at once, then said, “Glittering points that thrust downward and never rust.”

“Icicles.” Old Dragonfly paused a beat and gave the next riddle: “At night, they come without being fetched; by day, they disappear without being stolen.”

Kimiko was tired. Her eyelids fluttered. The smell of the incense was strong and sweet as the meat of honeyed plums. She could almost taste it on the back of her tongue. Her vision was blurred, but she could see Old Dragonfly’s smile turn into a shark’s grin. Kimiko jerked herself awake and blurted the answer to the witch’s riddle, “The stars.”

Was it her imagination, or did an expression of disappointment flit across Old Dragonfly’s age-creased face? Kimiko folded her hands into the sleeves of her kimono and pinched herself hard enough to leave bruises. The pain helped her feel more awake but she knew that sleep was still lurking close-by, waiting to envelope her in its muffling folds. To succumb would mean death for herself and for Ayumi.

She stifled a yawn – her jawbone cracked with the effort of not opening her mouth – and said after a moment, “Lighter than air or water, ten thousand men cannot lift me.”

“A bubble,” said Old Dragonfly. “Have it, want to share it; share it, don’t have it.”

“A secret.” Kimiko was feeling somewhat desperate. How much longer would they have to exchange riddles? “Grumble the dead, silent the living.”

“Leaves. The more you have, the less you see.”

Kimiko answered, “Darkness.” Oh, Ayumi, she said silently, I have tried and I fear that I will fail. Fragrant incense smoke spiralled to the roof rafters. The memory of her samurai made her think of another riddle. What had Sagigake said? The witch’s nature was cold Without giving it much more thought, Kimiko said, “Burns without fire, consumes without burning, can be slain but rarely dies.”

Old Dragonfly paused. Her eyebrows came together in a huge frown that swallowed up her eyes in wrinkles. Her lower lip thrust out. Her hands clutched her knees.

A fingertip length of grey ash dropped from the incense stick.

Kimiko held her breath.

More ash fell.

Old Dragonfly remained silent.

Evening Plum smoke perfumed the air.

At last, when the final bit of the incense stick had burned to nothingness, the silver-haired witch bowed, leaning forward until her forehead touched the tatami mat. “I concede the match,” she said. “The naginata is yours.”

Kimiko rose shakily to her feet. Her legs were cramping in protest but she did not care. “The answer to my riddle,” she said, “is love.”

Old Dragonfly sat up; her mouth worked a moment. “Because you’ve played fairly, I will give you fair warning,” the witch said. “The naginata’s blade is made of divine fire, brighter than the sun. It will blind anyone who looks directly at it. Also, the weapon must be returned to me before dawn gilds the peak of Mt. Fuji. If it is not returned, you will be consumed by the god’s fire until your body is wasted to nothing but ashes, just as these three incense sticks.”

“I understand,” Kimiko said, bowing and putting on her cloak. She took the naginata, testing the heavy weight of the weapon in her hands. The shaft was smoothly polished and felt warm. The blade remained covered by the well-wrapped cloth. Now she had the means to save Ayumi, and she had never lacked courage in her life; Kimiko would do what was necessary, even if it meant joining her lover in death.

She stepped outside and took the tengu’s mottled grey feather in her free hand. “Haoto!” Kimiko cried, keeping a firm grip on both items.

Once again, she flew swiftly through the air, the frost-tinged plume of her breath streaming behind her. Kimiko’s cheeks and nose were scoured nearly raw. Her blood was sluggish in her veins. Clouds boiled beneath her feet and stars pulsated above her head in the indigo of the night sky. A shadow passed over her; she glanced up and saw a red-tailed hawk chasing the moon.

Kimiko was deposited on a mountain peak. Cut into the living rock was a house with a blue tile roof, all silver and stone. She tucked the feather into her obi and hefted the naginata in a two-handed grip. Like all the daughters of samurai families, she had been taught the use of this weapon and was comfortable wielding it. There was, however, one last thing before she went inside. Kimiko tore a strip from the hem of one of her kimonos and bound it around her eyes, then unwrapped the naginata’s blade.

Even behind the blindfold, she sensed the brilliant, sun-like light that burst into being from the head of the weapon. Kimiko walked forward in the direction of the house, straining her ears for every sound that might provide a clue. Her sandals crunched on the snow. A thin wind whistled on the peak, driving dry flurries of more snow ahead of it. She balanced the naginata over her shoulder and held out her other hand to feel her way.

She knew the moment when she entered the house; her footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone floor, the sound bouncing from walls and ceiling. Kimiko stopped after a few steps and cried, “Yuki Onna! I am Fujiwara no Kimiko and I challenge you to a duel!”

“Foolish child,” hissed a cold, cold voice, “do you know who I am? I am the spirit of winter itself.”

“And when spring comes upon the land,” Kimiko answered boldly, “winter dies!”

A blast of freezing air struck her face as the spirit screamed its spite. Kimiko turned in that direction, swinging the naginata in a downward stroke. She imagined the blade slicing through that kou-itten mouth with its touch of scarlet. The weapon was heavy; her wrists and shoulders protested and the muscles in her forearms burned at the unaccustomed strain. It had been a long while since she had used a naginata and she had forgotten how difficult it was to control while the shaft was at full extension.

The expected jar of blade against flesh and bone did not occur. Yuki Onna must have moved out of the way. Kimiko cocked her head, listening. There was a faint scratching sound, just at the edge of perception. She remembered how snowflakes had been generated by the hem of Yuki Onna’s kimono. Whirling about on a heel, she struck out at what she thought was the source of that sound and felt a glow of satisfaction when the blade connected. Another blast of icy wind sent her rocking back two steps before she dug in her heels and refused to budge another thumb-length.

Kimiko moved her head from side to side, tracking minute shifts in the air. Fighting blindfolded was really a skill learned by fully fledged samurai and ninjas; she had not been trained in it. Nevertheless, Kimiko persisted. Mizu no yo ni, she thought. Moving, be like water. Still, be like a mirror. Responding, be like an echo.

There! A subtle tapping sound and a change of air pressure alerted her. The naginata shaft slid through her palms as she swung the weapon up into furiage-men-uchi – the blade brought overhead, then coming straight down with the strength of her back and shoulders put into the strike. Kimiko made a wordless spirit shout as she also focused energy from the very core of her being into the attack. Letting go of anger and fear and thoughts of vengeance, the young woman’s mind, body and soul were united.

Kiai!

A hideous screech made her ears ring. A turmoil of snow gusted against her body, soft as owl feathers, hard as pebbles, sharp as needles. It was like standing in the midst of a taifun, a divine wind that slammed against her flesh and knocked her backwards. Kimiko fell, her elbow painfully striking the stone floor. In her mind’s eye, she saw Yuki Onna’s mouth falling open, blackened teeth exposed, tongue like a blue worm protruding from between the kou-itten lips. She saw that perfect oval face shattering and crumbling into a thousand shards.

After a crash that shook the foundations of the building, silence descended like a veil.

Kimiko sat up, fumbling in her obi for the cloth. She managed to slip the length over the naginata blade, although her fingers were made clumsy by cold and haste. Only when the weapon was safely covered did she reach up and tear off the protective blindfold.

There was no sign of Yuki Onna except for the torn remnants of white kimonos that were scattered over the floor, as well as a large pile of melting, blue-tinged snow. Kimiko searched the house room by room, her heart lodged in her throat with apprehension. Where was Ayumi? She had to be here! Kimiko would never stop looking; she would never surrender the hope of finding her samurai alive, because love could be slain but rarely died.

At last, she slid aside a shoji-door and there was Ayumi. Kimiko let out a glad cry and ran to embrace her lover… whose body, she discovered, was frozen and cold, her skin tinged with blue. Ayumi’s black hair was gelid, the ends stiffened with ice. Her lips were barely parted. Kimiko framed the woman’s face in her hands, ignoring the frigid nip on her palms. It was like embracing one of the winter snow-Buddhas that children made by rolling snow into large balls and stacking them on top of one another.

“Ayumi! ‘Yumi-chan, can you hear me?”

The samurai did not answer. She stared, unblinking, into the distance.

Kimiko hauled a hand back and slapped her.

Ayumi did not respond. The samurai might have been a statue of compassionate Jizo, widely dilated eyes forever fixed on a distant, invisible horizon. Kimiko shook her, pleaded with her, even hit her again and yet Ayumi remained as still as stone, as unreachable as the divine panoply in Heaven.

Kimiko closed her eyes against incipient panic. Running around in circles tearing at her hair like a madwoman would solve nothing. It was obvious that Yuki Onna’s spell had not ended with the storm spirit’s vanishing. The back of her neck prickled as she recalled what Old Dragonfly had said about returning the weapon. Leaving Ayumi for the moment, Kimiko raced outside and looked towards the west, where sacred Mt. Fuji reared in majestic splendor, then towards the east… where the sun was rising, rosy fingers of light spilling across the land.

She was almost out of time.

Kimiko bit her lower lip and spent a precious moment considering her options. Making a decision, she hurried back inside, going to the room where Ayumi stood unmoving. Closing her eyes tightly, Kimiko whipped the cover off the naginata and used it to blindly hack away at the outside wall until she thought she had made a big enough opening. After rewrapping the naginata blade, she opened her eyes and assessed her handiwork. An irregular hole had been torn out of the wall, framed by splintered wood.

Grasping the naginata shaft in one hand, she took the tengu’s feather out of her obi and held it between two fingers, while knotting her remaining fingers in Ayumi’s kimono. “Haoto!” Kimiko cried.
Sunlight trickled over the snowy landscape as Kimiko and Ayumi flew through the air. The moon was already obscured and the stars had vanished from the lightening sky. It was actually quite beautiful, the way the indigo color faded to violet and lavender and a broad streak of startling pink that somehow managed to dye the rounded humps of snowbanks and snow-laden tree tree branches with gold and orange.

Kimiko’s eyes watered. She tightened her grip on Ayumi’s robe and on the mottled feather, unwilling to lose either. Fortunately, the magic that impelled them was also responsible for bearing both women’s weight. Kimiko could not have supported the samurai with her own strength alone.

It was while they were rushing over a deeply yawning mountain pass that Kimiko felt her grip on Ayumi begin to slip.

She could not drop the tengu’s feather; that would kill them both. If she let go of the naginata, then Kimiko would die, burned to ashes and dust, but neither would she release Ayumi. Kimiko gritted her teeth. If it came to a choice, she would drop the naginata and accept the consequences, as long as she succeeded in getting Ayumi to Sagigake-san.

Her grip slipped a little bit more.

Kimiko silently urged the feather to more speed.

Her fingers protested the strain; the bones were being bent in a way that nature had not intended. Desperate, Kimiko hooked an ankle around Ayumi’s leg to maintain contact. The soft grey light turned slowly gold around them. Kimiko turned her head, the short strands of her hair lashing at her eyes. The thin layer of ice around the samurai was beginning to thaw. Ayumi blinked once and Kimiko had to bite her lip to keep from shouting her joy aloud.

And then, without warning, the shoulder of Ayumi’s kimono shredded apart, breaking her grip entirely. Kimiko was helpless to do anything except watch as the samurai’s body pin-wheeled through space, arms and legs outflung, and landed hard in a snowbank, throwing up a cloud of powdery white crystals that sparkled in the weak dawn light. Kimiko began to breathe again; she had not realized that they had dropped so low, so Ayumi should be all right if she had not landed awkwardly.

She saw Old Dragonfly’s hut and swooped towards it, hauling the naginata back as though it was a javelin. Kimiko grunted as she let the weapon fly straight through the wall just as the peak of Mt. Fuji was struck by a shaft of sunlight. Heart pounding, Kimiko waited to be immolated; as the seconds passed and her flesh did not burst into flames, she sighed in relief and flew down to join Ayumi.

The samurai lay on her back in the snowbank, blinking rapidly, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. When she spotted Kimiko leaning over her, Ayumi frowned. “Where is my sword?” she asked, hand grasping at the empty scabbard thrust through her obi.

“It was broken by Yuki Onna,” Kimiko answered. “However, our ojisama, Sagigake-san, is making you a new one.”

Ayumi’s frown deepened, drawing her eyebrows towards the bridge of her oft-broken nose until they almost met in the middle. “When did we acquire an uncle?”

Kimiko made a rapid-fire explanation of the events that had occurred since they were attacked by Yuki Onna. It surprised her that only a few hours had passed, since it seemed as though she had been busy for days. During her recitation, Ayumi climbed out of the snowbank and brushed her kimonos and hakama clean. Although her movements were a bit stiff, it appeared as if Ayumi had not suffered from her enchantment too much.

When Kimiko had finished, the samurai nodded. “I am under an obligation to Sagigake-san,” Ayumi said. “Can the feather take us to Blue Crow village? If I can, I must help our new uncle recover his daughter and defeat his enemies.”

“Of course.” Kimiko had expected no less. She stepped close to Ayumi, so close that their bodies were separated only their clothing, and wrapped her arms around the squat woman’s waist. “I missed you,” she said simply.

“We will be out of the mountains soon,” Ayumi replied, ducking her head to press her cold nose against Kimiko’s neck. “At the next inn, we will take a room and pillow and write poems and drink tea until spring breaks the back of winter.”

“Hai, ‘Yumi-chan.” Kimiko pulled her head back enough to look into her lover’s face. “I am suffering from a state of affection for my retainer,” she said, lips curving in a smile.

Ayumi snorted and quoted an old proverb, “One kind word can warm three winter months.”

“I must not praise you too often, or your pride may swell too fat for your legs to carry.” Kimiko’s smile turned into a cheeky grin. “Hold on to me and don’t let go,” she commanded, holding the tengu feather aloft. “Haoto!”

The two women rose into the air and flew away. At first, Ayumi held onto Kimiko with a white-knuckled grip that made the young woman’s ribs creak in protest, but after a few moments, the samurai accepted the unusual form of transportation and relaxed. They arrived at their destination within a few minutes; as Kimiko and Ayumi touched down on the ground, the white-and-gray mottled tengu feather fell apart, wisps drifting on the wind.

Ayumi’s glance fell on Sagigake; the mountain goblin had exchanged his sumptuous court robes for a set of crimson lacquered armor whose color matched his face. “Domo arigato, Sagigake-san,” Ayumi said, bowing low in the manner of a subordinate to a superior.

He returned her bow, superior to subordinate. “So this is the infamous Ichijo Ayumi, the samurai who dares defy the Regent of Wa.”

“I follow my mistress,” Ayumi said, “even to Black Emma’s mansion in Hell.”

“Hmph.” Sagigake’s beady little black eyes narrowed further still as he studied the samurai woman. “Perhaps you will prove useful after all.” He gestured with his feather fan towards a tent that had been erected behind him. “You will find a sword in there,” he said dismissively, as if the matter was unimportant.

Ayumi made another bow, knowing that the tengu would understand her gratitude without it being necessary for her to articulate it. With Kimiko at her heels, she went to the tent. The interior was empty except for a sand tray, some weapons piled in a corner and a sword stand. Ayumi knelt and took the katana from the stand, turning the blade towards the morning light streaming through the door slit.

The chisel-tipped sword was beautifully made and flawless, perfectly proportioned along its entire length. The wavy pattern in the grain of the steel was the type called ‘three cedars,’ achieved only by the best swordsmiths - those called living gods because of their mastery of the art. Deep in the heart of the katana was a thin, shimmering gold line of characters that ran from the tip to the cord-wrapped ray-skin hilt.

The samurai laid the sword back on the stand and kowtowed three times in profound respect. This was no ordinary katana; this was a meibutso, a sword so special that it required its own name and was considered to harbor a soul of its own. Ayumi knocked her forehead against the back of her folded hands, which were pressed to the floor.

“I will call you Kusanagi, the Grass Cutter, if that is agreeable,” Ayumi murmured. She sat up and waited a moment, then took the sword and slid it into the empty scabbard in her obi. Getting to her feet, she searched through the assorted pile of weapons until she found a broad-bladed spear.

“You will need this,” Ayumi said to Kimiko, “in case the Red Faces are overrun.”

“I’m going with you,” Kimiko said, determined to argue the point, but her protest was interrupted by Ayumi placing gentle fingers against her lips.

“You have never fought in battle, ‘Miko-chan,” Ayumi said, “and I cannot remain focused on the fight if I must be concerned about your safety. A moment’s inattention may mean that the debt to our ojisama goes unpaid. Please stay here and wait.”

Kimiko blew out a breath, frustrated, but she understood the logic behind the samurai’s wishes. “Very well,” she said finally, “but I insist that you do not allow yourself to be killed just yet. I have further need of your service.”

Ayumi bowed solemnly, although a smile tugged at her lips.

Sagigake and his long-nosed Red Face tengu army stood on the field facing the Blue Crows, who were humanoid except for the large beak that took the place of their nose and mouth. Their faces were also light blue. Ayumi stood next to Sagigake; in the absence of the storm, she had put off most of her kimono layers and tied her sleeves back with a cord. Watching from a safe distance, Kimiko’s was swollen with affection and love. Her samurai cut quite a martial figure!

Stubby wings a-flutter, the red and blue tengu armies came together with a clash of arms that shook snow from distant mountain peaks. Ayumi was in the forefront, her new sword licking down upon the enemy goblins in lightning fast strokes, mowing the blue tengu’s lives as if they were dried grass in a field.

Ayumi’s katana flicked up, scattering blood droplets, and swung down, arresting in mid-air and changing direction to deliver the ‘Two Wheels’ blow that cut a screeching blue goblin in half just above the hips. Confronted by two tengu with rice flails, she snapped Grass Cutter to the side and then forward in a pear-splitter swing that ended in a double decapitation, the tengu’s beaked heads flying amidst gushing fountains of dark blood. The churned-up snow was dappled with scarlet; Ayumi’s face was speckled with it.

A Blue Crow raced towards the samurai, his short-bladed sword held high. Ayumi took three steps back, leading with her left foot and dragging her right. Her katana was held obliquely, the tip pointing down. At the last possible second, she swept the sword up in the tsuki, a powerful thrust that took the goblin through the throat, cleaving the soft tissues open and ripping through the carotid artery. A rooster tail of blood spray coated Ayumi’s bare arms as she turned away; the tengu’s eyes were glazed by death even as he fell.

Kimiko clutched the spear, excitement warring with apprehension in her spasming liver, the seat of human emotion. Ayumi was the living embodiment of bushido, a warrior without peer on the battlefield. She loved the samurai and loved watching her, especially when Ayumi entered a state of mu shin – ‘no mind’ – when her well-trained body reacted without her conscious awareness. Enemies fell beneath the choppy, powerful blows. Ayumi’s bow-legged body moved with deadly grace, weaving among the blue-faced goblins. Wherever her sword struck, feathers and blood flew, and death followed.

At last, the leader of the Crows, Hyakutake, was killed by red-faced Sagigake. The surviving blue tengu broke and fled, pursued by the triumphant Red Faces, whose long noses bobbed as they ran. Ayumi flicked the blood from her new sword with a practiced movement, then slid it back into the scabbard. Her rooster-on-the-dungheap samurai’s strut had an extra bit of swagger in it that was, as far as Kimiko was concerned, well earned.

Kimiko waited until Ayumi was close before she bowed, giving honor to her lover. “As always, you were magnificent,” she said.

Ayumi’s eyes twinkled. “I was not prepared to write my death poem.” Her gaze transferred to Sagigake, who had joined them. A young seeming female tengu was with him; Kimiko assumed it was his daughter, Otome.

“Thank you, ojisama,” Kimiko said.

“Well done, human child,” the tengu replied, the tufts of his silvery eyebrows bristling. “Without Yuki Onna to help them, our enemies have been defeated and my daughter rescued. Your retainer is a formidable warrior and you, Kimiko-san, are a formidable opponent in wits and in battle. Consider the Red Face tribe your allies.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Kimiko said.

He put his hands together and bowed. “Yuki Onna is not dead but merely defeated for a while; still, you should be cautious in the mountains. One never knows when a storm will blow from nowhere.”

With a wave of Sagigake’s feather fan, all of the long-nosed tengu vanished, leaving behind only the bodies of the dead and a heap of discoloured snow.

Kimiko regarded Ayumi and sighed. “I lost my furoshiki,” she said mournfully.

Ayumi shrugged. “We will purchase another.”

“And my cloak.”

“You can share mine.”

Kimiko moved closer. “The tent is still here,” she pointed out with a sly smile.

“So it is.” Ayumi affected a theatrical mie in the manner of a kabuki actor, striking an exaggerated heroic pose and crossing one eye. “I am suffering from a state of affection for my mistress,” she boomed in the notorious ‘rough-stuff’ style.

“Come with me,” Kimiko said, tugging on Ayumi’s sleeve. “I can cure your illness.”

“I hope not,” Ayumi muttered, allowing herself to be pulled along.

Kimiko grinned.

Sometime later, the wind picked up. Another storm began to blow. The sides of the tent fluttered and snapped like a battle banner. Kimiko snuggled down into Ayumi’s warm embrace and sated, fell asleep to the sound of snow falling from the clouds.

THE END

Glossary ~~~o0o0o0o~~~ Return to the Library