Let me tell you the tale of a man with a beard

Whose whiskers are whetted, and stoutness revered.

Who voyaged the globe, his intentions unknown

With naught but his wit and the bristles he’d grown

Gather thy men and ready thy sail

For the grandeur of his is our white whale

Step aside Ishmael, it is late

Lest you fall to this man barbate

Now this man has been with us a quinquagénaire

Adorning our lives with his facial hair

To his friends he smiles, to his foes he will grin

As they face the might that has grown on his chin

Gather thy men and ready thy sail

For the grandeur of his is our white whale

Step aside Ishmael, it is late

Lest you fall to this man barbate

From the west to the east to the north he has gone

From tropics to tundra, snow and sun

But the cold and the heat stay away out of fear

For the man whose jawline resembles a bear

Gather thy men and ready thy sail

For the grandeur of his is our white whale

Step aside Ishmael, it is late

Lest you fall to this man barbate

Though the whims of the world are ours to endure

He knows no misère with his hair haute couture

Defying all logic and physical law

His beard has men weeping in shame and awe

Gather thy men and ready thy sail

For the grandeur of his is our white whale

Step aside Ishmael, it is late

Lest you fall to this man barbate

If you happen upon this man one day

You will find his visage has allure and sway

As you gaze upon him there’s a change in the air

And reduced to a babe you can nothing but stare

Gather thy men and ready thy sail

For the grandeur of his is our white whale

Step aside Ishmael, it is late

Lest you fall to this man barbate

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EJcq035EtOM&ab_channel=GeoKoer

ONI NO ME NI MO NAMIDA

A tale by Chibouk the Stray

I sit at the edge of a lush streak of green, a grassland growing eastward with nary a hill to halt its advance to the horizon, in a plane colloquially known as the Sward’s Breath. Behind me lies the woodland of Tahan Nafas, a dense forest that crawls over windward hills before plummeting down to the Chasm of the Sunken Holts – a submerged forest veiled between the Great Dombaro Mountains and the Breath, both of which serve as the inspiration of painters and artistes alike to compose their magnum opus. The weather is temperate and the sun hides behind the clouds, much to my liking. The wind plays with my beard and tickles my nose. I am assured by my host the grassland is never still. He pours me strawberry tea from a makeshift clay pot into a makeshift clay mug and presents me with grapes in a makeshift clay bowl. He sits beside me as I drink. He is a most hospitable host, calm and gentle. He is a thinker, he proclaims.

He is also an Oni.

He calls himself Furīdamu. His resemblance to masks I’ve seen used in traditional kabuki performances is uncanny: great black horns grow from just above his ears, which still have holes from where earrings once dangled. His jaw juts out like a sharp rock, and pointed teeth align his mouth, with canines that jut outward and upward. His brow is thick like that of a neanderthal and slopes down in an expression of perpetual melancholy. His hair is black and untamed and waves in the wind. The whole of his leathery skin is dyed a bright red, while the creases and wrinkles are a deep maroon. Faded scars criss-cross his chest, his arms, his legs. He wears naught but a loincloth. In the isolation of the Sward’s Breath, I cannot help but wonder whether he does so out of decency or out of habit.

She will be here soon, he assures me. His lips curve into a smile, showing his pointed teeth. I nod, but not from comprehension. We met by chance in the woods. I was lost, and when I came upon him, I was taken aback by his imposing figure. But Furīdamu was quick to alleviate my worries, and knowing the trees by heart he guided me downhill to the valley where we now rest.

When I ask him how he got here, so far from his native lands, he laughs. His shoulders bounce as he does. He says he came here more than a hundred years ago and has to laugh again when he sees the look on my face. He claims to be twice as old, but a dozen times wiser.

I ask him what he means.

Furīdamu inhales deep and breathes out with such force that steam jettisons from his nostrils. What do you know about Oni? He asks. I shake my head, confessing I am not privy to much knowledge at all about his kind. I refrain from saying I believe the word to mean ‘demon’. His smile is tender, if downcast. He looks out over the meadow that stretches ever on, then begins his soliloquy.

Oni are born of fury, he says. Some believe us to be the reincarnation of those whose deeds were so wicked, so vile, that they shape their reincarnation. Others say we come from Kimon, the Demon Gate, which leads to Jigoku, the nether regions of the afterlife, where Oni forever torment the most despicable of people. Regardless of our origins, Oni are fierce creatures, wrathful and wild. But there is one important distinction to make: Oni are not evil. You must remember this above all else you learn today, for what you learn is not for the faint of heart. Oni bring calamity. Our size, our strength, our spite, spell doom and destruction to the land. Some Oni cause the earth to shake, others bring forth deadly plague. Some instil terror through thunder and lightning. All Oni are destructive, and all relish the taste of human flesh. I was no different. For many decades I was the scourge of the Japanese countryside, ravaging the peaceful villages unfortunate enough to lie on my path. My cries of rage turned hearts to stone, and all would flee when they saw my approach.

To demonstrate his power Furīdamu stands up, stretches his massive arms, and claps his hands together with such force that the sound carries over the field, reverberating so loud it is as if he corresponds with thunder. The ground rumbles underfoot. Tendrils of smoke slither from the corners of his mouth, and for a moment his eyes shine the colour of brimstone and fire. I am reduced to a hapless child in the face of his ferocity. Then his eyes cool and he sits cross-legged next to me, positioning his hands on his mighty thighs. He pours me a second cup of tea before continuing.

I was young, then, and ignorant. I heeded not the suffering of others, only my own desires. And why not? I was powerful, and the people I tortured were weak. Yet I was angry, always angry. Why did such rage fuel my very being so? There is a proverb I have come to favour: shiranu no hotoke. It means, ‘to be ignorant is to be Buddha’, referring to the peace of mind not-knowing can give. But then why are Oni not at peace? I knew nothing of happiness, but I knew of peace, of quiet, of a tranquil state of mind, for in my heart of hearts, in the moments my rage was not a blinding, hot, white noise, I sensed there was more in me – or in actuality less in me – than what little else wrath permitted. And this intrinsic sense I felt grew as the decades passed by, until at last I left what constitutes as adolescence behind. The impulse for violence, that hunger, was there, but so was something else, something new.

They say growth cannot occur without experiencing pain. I still remember the moment when I began to grow. I trudged past the paddies of the southern prefecture of Shikoku, drawn to the tapered steps that adorned the hills and valleys, noticing, for the first time, how the midday sun sparkled in their shallow waters. I stopped, staring at the ripples that broke the illusion that the sky was in fact on land, wholly unaware of the farmers who had seen me and began to scream and run. I just stood in the moment, with the sun overhead and the hills below, and felt… calm. The rage that I had come to define myself by was pushed far back, and I longed with all my heart to hold on to this new feeling, for it was pleasant and allowed me to actually think. Of course, the farmers, whose village was nearby, had summoned a samurai, and his battle cry forced my eyes away from the tapestry of God himself. Bathed in the golden glow of the undern my opponent looked no more menacing than the rice fields themselves, and as I turned to him, I saw his blade quiver. I was thrice his height and ten times his strength, yet though he wavered he was steadfast to defend the people who called such divinity their home. He raised his katana over his head. My anger resurfaced – an instinct after half a century of deciding my every action – and so I roared in return, raising my kanabō to the sky. My voice rattled his armour, and I was ready to strike. But when I saw the fear of death in his eyes it was I who wavered, for a split second, before sending my club down. It did not connect with my adversary. Instead, I raised my leg and forced the club to collide with my knee, breaking the thing in half. The pain I inflicted upon myself made me howl, and I felt the trees shake at my might, heard thunder crash through the canopies, as if nature bowed to my suffering. Then I ran, my strides greater than that of a wartime horse, crashing through the forests like a deranged yōkai. I cried and cried and cried as thunder and lightning collided. But it was not pain that caused me to wail. I cried because I had finally broken free from the anger and hatred that had me in shackles my entire life.

But although my cell had opened I had yet to escape my prison. Anger no longer forced me down the path of destruction, perpetuating itself through the righteous furor of the people I encountered, but it had not gone either, and was quick to resurface at the tiniest inkling of adversity. Just the sound of swords clattering, or arrows whizzing was enough to rekindle the flames of fury, and I struggled to avoid it becoming a wildfire. I needed time – and time I found at the summit of Mount Ishizuchi, itself the ruins of an ancient volcano, called the Stone Hammer of the Gods. Atop the mountain sat a shrine, older than I am by over a thousand years, and the pilgrims who stayed there were startled at my approach. They were even more startled when they saw me kneel and bow, touching the Hammer with my forehead, pleading for them to help me douse the flames that burned me from inside. It was my tears that swayed them, for they had never seen an Oni cry.

Furīdamu pauses, and as I look at him, I see his eyes glisten. It is as if he recalls the scene with great clarity, the way his expression dances from sombre to exuberant. A part of me wishes I could experience it as he has, if only to feel what he feels.

So it began, he says, my tenure as an apprentice to the practice of patience. I could not fit inside the confines of the shrine and its abode but was permitted to stay in front of the entrance, before the mountain slopes perilously steep. This was fine for me, as Oni are used to sleeping under the stars. The first few weeks the monks conversed with me, satiating their curiosity at my apparent benignity. I am certain they wanted to ensure that my claims would hold true, that it wasn’t an elaborate ruse of mine. Or perhaps they thought it a divine test coming from the mountain gods themselves. And upon the peak, so high above the world, above the people, above the paddies, at the mercy of whatever cosmological entity turned the very stars, I began to wonder the same.

Weeks turned into months, and months turned into years. Meditation confounded me at first, and my frustration was quick to surface. My mind was too primitive, too emotional, to grasp the notion of something as simple as sitting still. But the monks, masters of the mind, guided me with keen insight and understanding, and so, slowly, I began to learn. Meditating is not just to sit, but it is to be mindful of your immediate surroundings and yourself. To focus on one thing, or nothing, and to withhold judgement of its value. To be, rather than to bear. I still got angry, yes, for this was my nature, but no more did I resort to violence. Shouting helped, and from the sharp edge of the Hammer’s tip my cry would thunder over the lands. Every episode lasted shorter than the one before, and the spells of time between my eruptions grew longer and longer. The first true revelation came after having lived with the disciples for five years. I had lived off deer and bear or other woodland animals rather than feasting on human flesh, and often these creatures had to endure my wrath – until one day they no longer had to. I no longer rampaged, and instead I hunted; my goal was not to satiate my hatred but rather my hunger. I felt elated that I had succeeded in overcoming my wicked nature – but of course this was merely the beginning. The monks knew that my time atop the Hammer’s head knew nothing but tranquillity, whereas the world below would see me a fiend, and treat me accordingly. The monks devised methods to steel my mind, to cage the tiger, for, as they said, a tiger could never be tamed. They would provoke me on purpose by yelling and slinging insults. As time went by, they would cast stones or prod me with sticks. And whenever they saw the agitation grow, they told me to focus on something else – to straighten, for my hulking stance was not conducive to allow energy to course freely through my body. They taught me breathing techniques for when I’d feel rageful, and to see the world through the lens of pity, not fury – for the people feared me and did not understand I was transformed, but this was not their fault. More years passed, with some failures but with many successes, the biggest being the fact that I had not hurt anyone in close to a decade. It was at this time, towards the end of my tenure, that I realised something: my time to leave was nigh.

The final day of my stay on the peak my rest was interrupted when a sizeable boulder hurled over the shrine and landed against my shoulder, knocking me out of my meditative state. I merely needed to stand up to see that bandits had appeared with a catapult from the path down the slope, readying bows and arrows, and were rushing the shrine. Some monks fled, others were forced to fight with what sticks and stones they had. Blood hung thick in the air – and my rage emerged, banging against the cage in which my mind kept it imprisoned. I bellowed at the intruders, which drew their attention, but they seemed unabashed by my presence and charged me head-on. They were dressed in red armour and wore devilish masks, mocking my very form with their childish display of brutality. It would’ve been so easy, so satisfying, to raise my foot and stomp them, to revel at the sound of bones breaking and flesh squishing – or to snag them in my mighty hands and squeeze the blood from their eyes and mouths, or to tear them in half and suck out their organs. The old Oni longed for this familiarity. But I no longer was this version of myself, and so I calmed like the monks had taught me, even as swords and spears pierced my skin and stones pummelled my head. Instead of harming them I shoved them away with the back of my hands, or plucked them from the shrine and placed them at the precipice – enough to scare them, but not to kill them. I had to repeat these motions multiple times before the bandits grew tired and stopped, and at last remained where I put them. I stood before them, gazing upon them like a mighty ape observing little termites. Stop this fighting, I said, for nothing good can come of it. Those with power should protect the ones without, not cause further harm. This I have learned during my time with these monks. Perhaps, if you desire the shrine so, you should learn the same.

One by one the bandits fell to their knees. They bowed to me, as if I was a deity worthy of worship. Then they cast aside their armour and revealed they were not bandits at all – but fellow Buddhists from the shrine at the foot of the mountain. The disciples of the Hammer had requested their aid in their ultimate test – to see how I fared in unexpected chaos and combat. The blood I had smelled was spilled of goat and ox, not man, and so their ruse had been complete.

I had passed their test. I was a demon no more.

That night there was a feast, with dance and song and boar and wine. I was given an indigo scarf of silk, originally meant to adorn my neck, but as it proved too small, I wore it as a ribbon in my hair. The act moved me to tears, as I had never been gifted anything other than pain and anger to reflect that of my own. And after the festivities were over and the monks had fallen asleep, I left, as quietly as these giant feet would allow. I wished no grand farewell ceremony, nor feel the heartache leaving these wonderful people behind – yet stay I would not.

I can see Furīdamu’s smile is genuine as he pauses and takes in a deep breath. He offers me a third cup of tea, before realising I have yet to start the second. I ask him what happened of the ribbon he was given. He says that will come when shearrives. When I tell him I was meaning to ask about this mystery person he wags his finger and tells me I will see for myself soon enough. He then glides his hand over the grass and plucks a daisy from the field, holds it up to examine it, and smells it.

Truly, beauty can be found in the smallest, simplest of things. My descent from the Hammer confirmed as much. I saw divinity in each tree, each leaf, each scuttling insect. I even began to muse on the divinity in me – which presented quite a paradox, for wasn’t I supposed to have been born of malice and hatred? I still find myself pondering the notion, and I’ve yet to find an explanation that satisfies. Perhaps there is no answer, but oddly I cannot accept that. But I digress. I walked down the mountain in awe of its many wonders and remembered the day before – the audacity and bravery of the monks and their test – and was tempted to climb up again, if only to wave goodbye. But no, though it would please me and perhaps even them, there was more sense in a quiet retreat – and I quite liked the romance in the idea of leaving a mystical impression behind. Soon dawn broke and golden rays of light bathed the forest and mountain in a wealth unmatched by even the richest of emperors. I caught a deer and prepared it, having learned to roast its meat rather than to eat it raw, and drank from a cool stream. I felt one with nature and was content.

It was a couple of days later that I brushed with life outside the shrine for the first time in a decade. A group of hunters saw me at my bonfire one morn and could not help but cry for help. I decided to remain as I was, and only smiled at them. Of course, with tusks like these even a simple smile can turn savage, and so it was not surprising that the hunters returned with more of their kin – and more heavily armed. Imagine their surprise when they were not met with unbridled rage, but with a friendly wave! And as I stayed calm and seated, seemingly disinterested, they approached me, lowering their weapons, and asked me for my name. It was then that I realised I had never given thought of naming myself, and the freedom of this choice gave birth to Furīdamu. I invited the men to join me and offered them venison, and soon I spoke at length of my transformation at the Hammer’s head. Morning turned to noon in the blink of an eye. When my tale ended the men looked at each other, and hesitantly asked if I would help them in their need. They would have me stay with them in their village, but asked I would only arrive at dusk, for if I were to march with them the villagers would surely not believe their claims that I was a friendly Oni, and would likely attack me or flee; no they needed to persuade their fellows and prepare them for the entrance of an ogre whose intentions were pure. I agreed, despite not having been told of the troubles that required my aid. I suppose I was eager to prove to them and to myself that I was not a being of violence anymore. Perhaps they needed me to assist them in the construction of a new house, or to fortify their village by planting a sturdy gate. A builder Oni – the thought was greatly pleasing!

The truth was, alas, nothing so simple.

Following the men’s instructions, I arrived at village under a red sun. Bathed in such twilight I must’ve looked like a devil wreathed in flame. Yet the villagers remained composed – it seemed the hunters had succeeded in preparing their people for my presence. I bowed to the villagers, and asked them not to fear me, for I meant no harm. I bore three deer as gifts, and placed them in the centre of the vill, before sitting cross-legged on the ground. In return the womenfolk presented me with fruits and rice, and though I had little taste for such food I accepted it, not wanting to insult the first people I had met since my time atop the mountain. And as we ate and spoke, I could not help but be moved at the fact that even the children came closer and wished to touch my skin – their curiosity being of the purest, kindest sort. Never in my life would I have been able to imagine finding myself the subject of nervous giggling and laughter of younglings.

Dinner came and went and as the children were put to bed, the men stayed to relate to me the woes they faced. And woes they were, and of the greatest kind at that. I should’ve known, of course, that my fantasy of benign labour was just that, for the village, and the surrounding villages as well, were at the mercy of an Oni. The hunters and men must’ve seen my reluctance as they dropped to their hands and feet and begged me to assist them. Their tormenter would appear once a month at a new moon, to trample their homes and snag unfortunate souls to be devoured whole. Even the strongest of samurai, sent by the local lord, were unmatched against the demon, whose rage tore them asunder as if they were but origami figures in a storm. And though I did not know how I felt having to face another Oni, I could not turn my back on these people, not after having already agreed to help – and certainly not after having been welcomed so hospitably.

It would be three days before the next new moon, so I decided to prepare the villagers for the Oni’s arrival. I helped dig trenches and a tunnel into the mountainside, where the women and children would hide. But that was not all. The men would lure the Oni to a trap we prepared – a pit, deep and wide enough for him to fall into without being able to climb back up. I pulled down trees and strip them of their bark, broke them into pieces and sharpened the edges. I planted the spikes in the pit, and when it was done, we covered the hole with an old net, and used leaves and dirt to have it blend with the ground. We felt prepared, at least somewhat, but in truth nothing could’ve prepared us – prepared me – for the clash that was to come.

The night of the new moon was upon us, and the village was empty save for the hunters and some of the men that had volunteered. The plan was simple: the Oni would target the men, who would flee and lure him into the trap. Once inside, distracted by the spikes in his feet, I would appear, and with rock and dirt would bury him alive – or kill him by ripping off his head. Thus, we waited, the men in the village and me in the trees.

It was dead-quiet, as if the forest itself held its breath, and each minute crept by slower than the last. Until suddenly, there he was, lumbering towards the village, smoke trailing from his mouth and nose as he grunted and snorted. He was red like me, but his bulk dwarfed mine. He spotted the men, and when he roared the heavens roared back – and finally I understood the fear that would freeze the hearts of men. In three great steps he stood in the village, and the men fled as planned into the woods ahead.

The Oni pursued them and stepped onto the net – but he didn’t fall in the way we had anticipated. Instead, he managed to clasp the sides and pull himself up, and his fury at this failed attempt to rid of him turned his pupils bloodshot. His massive, muscular arms swept forward, and without intervention he would’ve swatted the men like they were flies. When instead his hands collided with my ankles the Oni looked up in confusion. He could barely register the fists that slammed against his crown so hard it forced him to the ground. I turned to the men and shouted at them to hide in the trenches – a mistake, because the Oni wrapped his arms around my legs and dragged me down. I could no longer mind the villagers; our fight had begun. The Oni clawed his way on top of me and aimed his fists at my face. His first blow struck me like a boulder and almost broke my nose. The second blow collided with my forehead, and the pain that blossomed almost made me black out. His third blow would connect as well, but I tilted my head just in time so that my horns pierced his hands when he brought them down. He howled, and as he moved his palms upward, I saw I had drawn blood. I felt the Oni was unstable, and with a quick heave I caused him to lose balance and I could push him off me.

Both of us scrambled to our feet and stared at each other, and at last I could take him in proper. He was taller than me, heavier, with fat muscles rippling under his skin. His eyes shone so bright red they left a trail whenever he moved. His hair clung to his shoulders and his beard seemed like spikes. And unlike my expression, which borders on dolour, his face had knotted and twisted into the embodiment of hate. Steam escaped from the corners of his mouth as he panted, waiting. Then he tensed and roared, and as he sprung forward, I felt the very mountain rumble. His charge was forceful, fast, and though I dug my heels in he crashed into my shoulder, attempting to topple me again. His fists were planted under my ribs and his horns scraped against my own while he pushed. Again, he punched my sides, and again, each blow stinging more than the last – and inside of me the tiger clawed at its cage. I dug my nails in the Oni’s back and tried to lift him, but I couldn’t, so I pummelled his shoulders to little avail. I could only escape when he moved his head back, allowing me to smash my head into his nose. I heard it crack, and I grinned knowing I had succeeded where he had failed. The advantage was mine, and as he stood dazed, I threw in haymakers of my own. I was not as strong, but I was lean, and speed was on my side. I got a few good hits in before he regained his senses, and soon his fists clashed with my own.

Over and over, we struck one another like berserk boxers, each harrowing blow harder than the one that came before, until each collision shook the foundations of the land and made the sky tremble. But his ferocity and strength were greater than mine, and what enraged him even more was that another Oni, his own kin, dared stand in his way. When at last came a lull in the storm we stood yet again facing each other, panting like mad dogs. The village we stood in was in ruin, and I could only hope its people had made it out in time. There was little time to catch my breath. The demon screamed, thunder clapped, and as hatred and malice consumed him his hair burst to flames. I realised that if we’d stay here, the village – no, the whole valley – would be no more, so I turned and ran. The Oni’s pursuit was feral; I could hear his snarls and roars, could feel the ground quake with each step – could feel the tiger in me gnaw at its bars. More than once he lunged at me, but his bulk betrayed him and I dodged his leaps, running until I could run no more, for ahead of us lay the precipice of a cliff. The Oni slowed down, knowing there was nowhere for us to go, and when he stood before me, he looked like a fiery beast dragged from the depths of hell. The sky above crackled with electricity, and the wind howled in sorrow. The hellfiend balled his fists and bellowed a war cry that echoed over the ravine. We both charged each other, and under thunderous heavens we warred. I could feel my anger rising – could feel the tiger empower me – but years of freedom had subdued me, whereas the flaming Oni was only rage and death. I would not survive the assault of an Oni whose punches would smash rock and whose breath was the fire of hell. If I were to live, I would have to fight smarter, not harder.

Now understand that Oni are not warriors. We are not trained in the fine arts of combat, for we have no need for them – we smash or grab or stomp anyone with little to no trouble. But at that moment, on the edge of the cliff, I knew I had to learn. I stopped trying to punch or grab the flaming Oni and instead brought my forearms to my chest. I stepped backwards more, sideways more, evading more than attacking. I ducked at blows that swung high and pivoted at thrusts of his knees. I studied the Oni’s movements, and slowly began to realise that he relied on the same motions again and again. He would flex and pull back his left arm before mowing his right or roll his shoulder before a quick punch. He always tried to grab me by the shoulders before attempting a kick or a shove of his knee. And the more I learned the less his attacks would connect, and the greater his frustration, the clumsier he became. I also learned I could force him to reposition, and thus began to turn the tide of battle.

My counterattack commenced. With the rough swing of his right arm, I got in a quick jab from the side, pressing the hollow under his ribcage, forcing him to step away. He always followed with a lunge from his left, which was slow and easily dodged; I forced my elbow in his neck, causing him to stagger. He tried his haymaker swing again, hitting nothing but air. In response I grabbed his wrist, held his arm straight, and brought my elbow down on his joint. It did not break, but his howl told me it had hurt. His shoulder rolled – a quick kick to his shins disrupted his attack. In rage and despair, he thrust his head back and roared at the sky. I silenced him with a punch to the throat – then one to the gut, and another, and another, until I had beaten the air out of him, and he doubled over, clutching his stomach. That’s when I grabbed him by the horns, planted one foot against his crown, and pulled. With a snap they broke off, fizzing and steaming ink-black smoke. The flaming Oni’s screech of pain was disturbing; I hope never to have to hear such a sound again.

By breaking his horns, I had broken his pride – and his seething hatred soon broke the rest. The flames of his hair spread outward until his entire body blazed like an inferno. Still, he got up and continued to punch, to kick, to claw, blind, unable to even find me. In his frenzy the precipice ultimately took him, for too late he realised he had teetered too close to the edge. His shriek called forth one last thunderclap, and its lightning smote him mid-fall, ending his reign of terror. I dropped to the ground, bruised and bleeding, and when I began to cry the sky released its waters to wash away my tears.

Furīdamu looks away and wipes one arm over his eyes. He shivers, and I ask him if he is alright. He nods, but it takes him a moment to face me, at which point his smile does little to hide his sorrow. I bring the cup he made to my lips, only to find it has gone cool. Whatever became of the people? I ask, drinking cold tea. The gentle giant shakes his head.

I never returned to the village. In fact, I never returned to the valley, to Ishizuchi, or to the paddies, for I could foresee my future, and did not like it at all. I would be praised, perhaps even hailed. News would spread of the Oni that killed another Oni, and soon another village would come and beg me to help with their Oni. And if I’d survive, which was not a guarantee, more requests would follow, and not long after I would be known as Oni Killer, or the Good Oni, forced to forever kill my kin. Whether out of rage or out of compassion, my life would exist of bloodshed – and I simply could not agree to that, not after my metamorphosis.

So, I fled, resolved to steer clear from people, passing through the land as a crimson shadow. For years I wandered alone, and apart from the occasional encounter with lone hunters or travellers I met no one. Some wanderers would flee, others approached and would hear my tale. But I would permit none to walk with me, nor would I offer my help to those who asked. And though I was not happy, I was content – for a while; one can only be without company for so long. So it was that after rage I knew peace, and after peace I knew sorrow, and after sorrow I knew loneliness – which was not a companion to keep. Would I seek out humans after all? Or was I to settle down somewhere? I even thought of finding another Oni to try and teach them the ways of meditation – but none of these ideas would stay. Without my anger I had lost my purpose, and without purpose what was I meant to do? Ah – she arrives!

My host laughs and waves at something in the fields – I do not immediately see it, but after a few seconds I detect a little dot flying just above the waltzing grass. I soon realise the dot is a pixie, clutching a sizeable strawberry. She wears a skirt and top made of faded indigo silk. Her hair is short and golden, and with an adorable giggle she brings the strawberry to Furīdamu and deposits it on his outstretched hand. She rubs her tiny nose against his before resting on his shoulder, pointing at me and chittering into his ear. Furīdamu nods and smiles.

You wished to know of whom I spoke, the Oni says, cocking his head to one side to better hear the pixie’s chitter. Wait a moment Fay, allow me to first introduce you. This here is Fay, my companion – my family. This surprises you! Indeed, when I came upon Fay, I was rather surprised too, not in the least because pixies are not from my native lands. It turned out that Fay here had flown through a gate from another realm – this realm – quite unwittingly. She can be rather mischievous, this one. Hey – don’t pull my ear! We happened upon one another by sheer luck. I was tracking a deer for lunch when Fay here zipped by me, followed by a… what do you call it, the one that looks like kitsune? A fox, that’s right. She was chased by a hungry fox, and though I did not quite realise what Fay was, I knew that I wished to save her – and perhaps to make the fox my supper. At the latter I failed, but Fay I could save just by shouting, which caused the fox to flee. Fay meanwhile had managed to get herself snared on the thorns in a thicket, and at first was greatly distressed at my enclosing hand, until she realised I released her from the thorns and provided her with berries to replenish her energy.

I think we were both intrigued by one another – such a small creature meeting such a large one – and we tried to communicate, failing spectacularly at first. Pointing and gesticulating was marginally successful, and Fay brought me to the gate she had flown through. It was embedded in a torii, a traditional Japanese arch, in front of an abandoned forest shrine, and it was a most fascinating apparition: I could see the forest around and behind the gate, but when I stood exactly straight in front of it, I could see an endless field of grass, with no sign of human life. Curiosity took hold of me and, squatting to fit, I went for the gate with the pixie in the palm of my hand. As I passed through, I could feel a strange sensation pressing on me, as if I had suddenly become twice as heavy and was wading through mud. Then I was freed, and I stood in that field – this field, where we now sit and chat. The torii had gone. In its stead stood a stone structure I’ve learned is called a dolmen, functioning much the same as the portal from which we came. Except suddenly the forests of my home disappeared, and the gate never opened it for us again. I was alarmed at first, but the peace of Sward’s Breath stilled me. We still go there, Fay and I, from time to time, although more out of tradition than a desire to go back.

The pixie slides off the Oni’s shoulder and jumps onto mine, twittering words too softly for me to make out. Then she pats my bushy beard and flies back to Furīdamu and wriggles her way into the hole of his earlobe as if it were a miniature swing. Her actions make the both of us laugh.

As I said, a mischievous one! When I learned her language, I also learned of her misère, for she had lost her family to a group of owls that swooped in on them during one fateful night, many moons ago. She was lost and alone for years, not unlike me. Perhaps it was this commonality that drew us together, but we both agreed that our chance encounter was the best thing that ever happened to us, for the both of us live long lives, and wish to live them in peace. And together we found new purpose, for and with each other, and for close to a hundred years we have been in these fields and woods, together.

I cannot help but smile at this vista before me – the culmination of years of struggle and amazing transformation – an Oni finding peace with a pixie. A gust of wind makes Furīdamu shiver, and as he does Fay falls from his ear in theatrical fashion, and all three of us laugh. I am invited to stay for dinner, and to see the dolmen from which they emerged. I happily take them up on their offer. And as the Oni pours me another cup, I find myself musing on the kinship they found in such an unexpected circumstance.

It is enough to even make demons cry.

Excerpt from my story, 'Wizards' Folly'.

Coralie halted in front of a red light at the crossing, unaware of the three unsavoury characters behind her. A tram rolled around the corner with a squeak. Such a hindrance they were to her—such an outdated method of transportation, restricted by two ridiculous metal slivers in the ground, which had caught her tyres more than once. Why couldn’t people just take the underground, or go by bus? That way cyclists like herself would not be bothered by these bulking behemoths, slowly running in their tracks, turning, twisting through the city like demented snakes. The twenty seconds it took to pass were endless in her mind. She couldn’t wait for her day to end, and if her phone didn’t ring by one in the afternoon, she’d consider it an end to the day indeed. She aimed to deliver on her own promise of bubbles and wine. Who cared if it would still be in the afternoon? That was the bliss of being an adult, was it not? To make one’s own decisions, stupid or not.

When the little green man in the traffic light replaced its red colleague, Coralie was off, shouting angrily at a taxi driver who had the audacity to cut her off. She braced herself for the tourist-laden Main Square, where pedestrians believed that walking on the bike lanes was their prerogative. What was the point, then, of having bike lanes in the first place? The city really ought to do something about that—after fixing the homeless situation.

With her mind unfavourably occupied, Coralie pedalled on, annoyed at constantly being slowed down—though she wasn’t going fast to begin with. Although her pace was inconvenient to her, it was very convenient for the three men behind her, as there was no need for them to run.

Main Square was packed, as expected around noon. It was surprising how dense a population would willingly squish itself into an otherwise large, open space. Coralie had grouped the mass into three categories, which she named the meat-munchers, pigeon-prowlers, and selfie-snappers. The meat-munchers were negligible to her; they mostly crowded around hotdog sellers or shawarma stalls and would peck away at their food sitting on far-off benches. Much more cumbersome were the city’s dirty, flying rats, which would peck away at scraps sown by the pigeon-prowlers. This created vast circles of spectators and feeders, intrigued by flocks of frantic feathers, which eagerly gobbled up such delicacies as greasy chips and cigarette butts.

But the worst of the lot were the selfie-snappers. Tourists and Starbucks-touring girls in their tweens,all desiring that perfect selfie with the old palace on the background. At least the pigeon-prowlers could be given a wide berth; the selfie-snappers, however, would backtrack swiftly and without warning, blinded by their own vanity, focusing on the world through a tiny LCD-lit screen. It forced any passer-by (particularly of the cycling variety) to a sudden, screeching halt.

Coralie groaned as she weaved left and right, dodging oblivious tourists, having to go well around the bike lanes. She glanced at some street artists posing as living statues, their acts continuously failing, either because of people’s meddling, or their own ineptitude. And, of course, before she could pass through the blur of people, another tram passed by to hinder her progress. It was a miracle it hadn’t rained yet on top of all things, although she supposed that would be the perfect end to the day.

Although we race against the final clock

To beat the man who aims to reap

To leave us all behind to weep

Our efforts, fruitless, seem designed to mock

Though we may strike our fists against the dirt

Or cast our anger to the sky

Our discontent a voiceless cry

They shan’t turn back the time, undo the hurt

The question then presented, sung in vain

Asks all and no one, is it fair?

An end so swift, so hard to bear?

But only silence plays in loss’ refrain

Lost in the muddled dark our train of thought

runs over joy and merriment

To crash, derail, or meet an end

So vicious it would make all hope thus naught

Yet in the stillest corner of the soul

We know our pain you never felt

The choices made you never dealt

That on those pearly beaches you may stroll

And with a peaceful heart you look

At all the clock gave you, and took

And you may smile, knowing you gave

your all

Blades of grass tower over me. So tall. Too tall. They wave in unfelt winds, encroaching from all sides.

But it is not what causes the rustling.

I walk through corridors of vegetation. Overhead light flickers from crying street lamps, leaking, dripping, unseen tears. The hair on my neck stands up. Goosebumps make me shiver.

But not because of the lamps.

I see them in a field ahead. Their noses pressed to the cold, hard dirt, they shuffle on all fours, endlessly tracing paths in a field of arid, yellowed hay, faces shrouded by black cowls. They snuffle as they search in circles, foraging like mad boars, for treasures unknown. I want to get away from them, but therein lies the problem.

I am forced to pass them.

They pay me no heed, it seems. Their sniffs and rustling are loud, and I am small, so small.

Suddenly they all stop. An icy shiver runs down my spine in the absence of sound. The are still, only turning their heads, back and forth, back and forth, as if deciding on where the intruder is. I move through the grass, and they continue their perpetual crawls. I realise at that point, the futility of running.

There is no key. No key to escaping.

I stoop low and start searching, hands parting grass, face close to the ground. Perhaps it is here? Or... there?

Based on a recurring childhood dream.

The name Chibouk is from the narrator in my fantasy stories about wizards. Sometimes he actively participates, or is a character himself; other times he has met with the main characters that appear in his tales. As for the name, well... here's a little bio:

Salutations! My name is Alex Alexandros Kidemonas, and I hail from the mountain village of Pomedom (named so as it lies wedged between mounts Pom and Dom on the Atalas Flats. Quite a mouthful, I know, and so it may please you to learn that I also respond to Chibouk.

It is an enduring moniker, one I have come to like quite a bit. It happened upon me shortly after my fiftieth birthday, when my son sent me a most marvellous staff: not only does the thing double as a walking stick, but it also functions as a long, hollow pipe, perfect for imbibing the smoke of Ira Zabira, my favourite leaf, a cross between nightshade and nettle – the latter of which allows for a sharp vapour, which invigorates the mind. Well, this mind, at least. The staff, which my son dubbed Djalanorokok, resembles a Turkish tobacco pipe of old, famous for its long stem – which was called a chibouk. Few people still use such antiquated devices (the shisha would prove more popular in later years), and as such it is rare to see anyone enjoying a puff this way. But I found myself growing fond of the ritual that is preparing the staff as my pipe. It forces me to stop and sit, rest, and introspect. It is also a fitting companion for an Embermage such as myself, and over the course of my many travels with the thing, people have come to define me by it.

As for the Stray? I call myself a wizard afflicted with wanderlust, and so I am a stray, if you will, or a wanderer. Over the years I have been given many more nicknames: the Wandering Wizard, the Magus of Many Tales, That-Man-With-The-Ridiculously-Long-Pipe - and few others I have forgotten. But Chibouk endured, and shall endure still, for as long as there is a tale to tell, I will be there to tell it.

MINKA VERSUS MINX

A tale by Chibouk the Stray

‘MINKA!’

A shrill voice echoed over the cobbles of Tahawal Street. It came from miss Kibbel, who had popped her head out of her little bakery called Muffin Tops.

‘Seriously, where did you run off to?’ she said, rubbing her temples. Twice more she shouted for Minka, before giving up and changing the CLOSED sign to OPEN and heading inside. She left the door open, allowing the smell of fruity, buttery pastries to waft out the door: a hint of cinnamon here, a dash of lemon there, all designed to trigger a bit of a tummy-rumble. Miss Kibbel shuffled over to her furnace and inhaled the scent of roasted almonds on banana bread. They were not ready yet, and so she plopped down in her rocking chair and pushed herself off with her heels, enjoying the cool breeze that came in through the entrance.

Something soft brushed against her legs. ‘Missy Minx! Why, I didn’t see you come in. Come here then, on my lap you go.’

The calico cat that had snuck in meowed and allowed herself to be picked up, and, after softly clawing miss Kibbel’s apron, nestled into her lap, purring at the strokes of her wrinkled hand.

‘Honestly Minxie girl, I don’t know what to do with that girl,’ miss Kibbel said while staring out the shop window, ‘where does she sneak off to every night?’

Minx flexed, yawned and stretched, then rolled on her back, relishing the belly rub that followed. Miss Kibbel smiled at the feline’s delight. Then she noticed the pink bowtie around her neck.

‘Oh, how pretty, Minx! You didn’t wear that yesterday. Did your owner give you that? Gosh, you are a cutie-pie, aren’t you. Tickle tickle!’

With powdery fingers miss Kibbel prodded Minx’s exposed tummy, and in reflex the cat grabbed her wrist as if catching prey – but the baker knew that whenever she did so, Minx never revealed her nails.

A heavy sigh signalled the end of playtime. ‘Where is that girl?’

Minx paused as if thinking on what to do next, then half rolled, half fell to the ground, landed neatly on her paws, and affectionately rubbed her head against the baker’s legs, before sauntering off to the back of the shop and hopping up the stairs. Miss Kibbel got up as well and took another long, hard look at her breads in the oven, straightening at the sound of footsteps coming downstairs. At first she looked surprised. Then her face sagged in displeasure.

‘Minka! I couldn’t find you anywhere upstairs. Where on earth did you come from? And stop doing that, will you!’

The teenage girl that emerged from the staircase stopped licking the palm of her hand, stumbled over her own feet, then adjusted the salmon-coloured ribbon in her hair. ‘Notice anything, auntie?’ she chirped, cocking her head to the side.

‘I notice you’re late, as usual. Waffles are in the kitchen, though they’ll be cold by now. Oh and finish the orange juice will you? It’s about to expire. Chop chop girl – shop’s open!’

Grunting Minka dragged herself to the kitchen, placing her back against the corner of the table and rubbing it to rid herself of an insistent itch. Stale waffles awaited her. The glass of orange milk smelled more sour than usual. With a grimace Minka emptied the glass in the drain and chucked the waffles in the bin. She’d have some milk later, when the maid delivered it. When she saw her reflection in the window she took off her ribbon, wiped it, then squeezed the thing in her fist before throwing it to the ground. Auntie hadn’t noticed it – not when she wore it.

Sighing Minka licked the back of her hand and flicked it through her auburn hair, before walking back into the shop and grabbing an apron from the rack behind the counter. The first customers were in: the grandmama twins who lived across the street, who came by every day.

‘Here’s your cinnamon rolls, Carol, Carla,’ Minka said, handing them two paper bags prepped by her auntie. ‘Will you be staying for coffee?’

Of course they stayed for coffee. They had stayed for coffee since time immemorial, having been loyal customers even since before the shop’s conception, eating rolls and sipping joes with her auntie in an act of neighbourly support. There, the lady of the house emerged, returning from the mirror at back of the shop with a thick layer of lipstick and a copious streak of rouge. Without even looking at her niece miss Kibbel plopped down with the twins and began her routine of morning gossip, ordering her to bring another cup of coffee with a flick of her hand. Minka rolled her eyes, brought the pot and placed it on the table for the ladies to figure out for themselves. She concluded, hearing their cackles, that they didn’t much care. Some more customers came and went, and ultimately it was Minka who took the banana bread from the oven while her aunt yakked away with the dinosaur twins. That’s how it went every single day; Minka ran the shop while Kibbel ran her mouth. As long as nothing broke and the customers were cared for, Kibbel didn’t speak to her at all.

Except, of course…

‘Minka put that down dear, lest you turn into a sweet roll yourself! That stuff goes straight to the thighs – and you really don’t need that, not with hips like yours.’

Scoffing Minka put away the cake she had almost bit into, took off her apron, and stomped up the stairs.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Bathroom!’

Minka slammed the door behind her and faced the mirror, wiping the corners of her eyes. How come that daft woman never paid attention – would willingly let her breads burn – yet somehow always knew when her niece went for a treat? Minka’s eyes glided down her mirror image. She wasn’t exactly skinny, but fat? Minka pressed her hands against her stomach, then let them slide over to her hips. This won’t do, she thought, day in, day out, what’s the point? Maybe I should go and change… But no, she couldn’t, not while the bakery beckoned. Tonight, yes, if only to confound Kibbel about her absence. Slowly Minka retreated to the shop.

The maid came to deliver the milk, allowing Minka to quelch her thirst. At nine-thirty she had a salmon-and-cream bagel, which would have to power her through the rest of the day, because lunch time was busy, and with patrons packing their provisions she would not find the time to have a sit down herself. Kibbel, of course, always found a moment to eat, blaming old age and frailty for her incessant need of nourishment, all the while criticising Minka whenever she asked for a break – what with her girth on the grow and all (as if Kibbel herself had not garnered quite the cushion). It wasn’t until five-thirty that the front door would shut and the sign would read CLOSED that, at last, Minka’s shift was over.

Miss Kibbel poked her head out the door, scanning Tahawal Street. ‘Minx? Oh missy Minx! Here puss puss puss!’ she sang, waiting a little while longer.

‘She’s never around at this time,’ Minka said, scowling at her grumbling stomach.

‘Oh shush, what do you know of cats,’ miss Kibbel said, before closing the door anyway. ‘Now be a dear and cook up some dinner. I’ve got tomorrow’s dough to knead.’

With a sigh Minka shuffled to the kitchen, groaning at the pile of plates she had to wash ere cooking could commence. A simple Pasta Romano would have to do, even if the tomatoes were no longer fresh. At least there was plenty of cheese.

Dinner was its usual quiet affair. Minka slurped at her fettuccini while Kibbel twirled the pasta with her fork – failing at her pursuit of etiquette. She tutted at her niece’s habit of licking the plate clean.

‘Cat’s got your tongue except for when you slobber it all over your plate. How are you to become a proper baker with that attitude of yours? And where are you off to now?’ Miss Kibbel inquired, eyeing Minka as she hobbled to the stairs.

‘Long day, I’m turning in,’ was the reply.

Kibbel scoffed. ‘For someone who sleeps so early you certainly manage to wake up late every day. Fine, go, have your cat nap – and don’t shake your hips so much when you walk, dear, it’s unbecoming.’

Without answering Minka trod upstairs, entered her room and quietly closed the door. She took a moment to lie on her bed, pushing her nose into the blankets and writhing around as if she couldn’t quite find the right position. Then she sat up, turned off the light, and waited, listening to the rhythm of the clock. Tick, tock, tick, tock. She focused solely on that sound, tick, tock. She breathed in. Tick, tock. She breathed out. Tick, tock.

It began with a shiver. An itch, just behind her right ear. Slowly the sounds of the world dimmed, while the sound of the clock grew louder. She felt herself diminish in size, and as she did her features began to change. Her nose began to shrink and her ears elongated. The hair on her head shortened while her skin grew bristly, and all the while she grew smaller. Then it accelerated: from her tailbone an actual tail sprang to life, and her arms and legs repositioned themselves to allow for quadrupedal movement. Her nails became claws that retracted in furry paws, and all the while she shrunk and shrunk. The final touch came with a cute little sneeze, causing whiskers to sprout from her face. The feline on the bed scratched behind her ear and meowed, blinking as her eyes enlarged to take in a world so dark.

Minka loved how each time she changed, her awareness changed too. Even sitting still on the bed she revelled in the sensations that swirled in her mind. The shadows of the room turned to silver, allowing her to see the wardrobe, her desk, and her nightstand with great clarity. Her vision had also expanded, as if her world had become panoramic. More impressive, however, were the other senses: without having to even try it Minka could smell everything with an acuity humans could never understand. She picked up the scent of her own pheromones, which were an intimate kind of sweet. There was an undertone of mustiness from dust and pollen, and tucked beneath all that she detected a hint of fermented yeast and sugar. Like a layer of blankets each smell presented itself, together yet separate, covering her surroundings in warm, familiar odours. But that was not all. There were also many more sounds than before: the ticking of the clock dominated the bedroom, but there was also her auntie’s shuffling coming from downstairs, the whistle of the breeze outside, and the scraping of tiny rodent paws in the beams above. She could also deduce with great precision where each sound came from, and she wiggled her ears when from outside came a feline cry.

Minka pushed her hind legs up and straightened her forelegs, stretching her claws and her spine. Then she hopped off the bed and walked the room, so giant, so alien, yet still home. With a wiggle of her whiskers she calculated her jump, before effortlessly reaching the bureau under the window. Strewn under her were pencils, papers and sticky notes, but her paws always avoided them, even without her looking down – her whiskers were like magic antennae, telling her exactly what was directly under her. She hopped on the windowsill. The opening to the outside world was a slither, just enough for her to squeeze through. From there she clambered up the gutter and strut over it like a literal catwalk. Oh she loved how her shoulders rolled with each step. The pistons of this pussy’s power were still a lazy locomotive, but in the blink of an eye she’d be a bullet train, sprinting with a finesse and speed only felines possessed. The rooftops, getting dark in the fading twilight, appeared as bright as midday to her – but now she would have to descend, for her nose had picked up something of interest.

With a motion more akin to water Minka flowed down a drainpipe and jumped onto the canopy of a small confectionary shop, gleefully bouncing on its elastic surface. Her movements were sinuous – and she felt mischievous. With her whiskers she picked up a change in the air even before she felt the canopy tremble behind her. It was the orange alley cat Otto, who roamed the back alleys and side streets and who lived behind perpetually overflowing rubbish bins. They rubbed heads, purred in recognition of one another, then leapt down, stalking the shadows of Tahawal street. Bags and bins were there to be toppled, rats and rodents there to be thwomped – and nightly rest was to be thwarted by the falsest of falsettos: a balcony duet to make even the moon regret its rise.

A shrill, wet cry interrupted the acappella. The calico cat looked up and with an air of nonchalance pushed Otto off the wooden fence that they had made their stage. Then she dropped to the street and at a brisk pace went for the source of the sound – which was, of course, Muffin Tops.

‘MINKA!’ the shriek went, and the cat could hear high heels tapping against the cobbles. With a meow she let the baker know of her presence, and she heard a sigh of both relief and worry.

‘Minxie dear, have you seen Minka, by chance?’ Kibbel said, studying the feline’s face.

The cat rolled over the woman’s shoes and rubbed her head against her shins.

‘Of course not… you probably don’t even know who Minka is. She’s not in her room, and I never heard her leave the bakery. Darn it, why does that girl have to worry me so?’

Slowly the cat lifted her head, as if comprehension dawned. While miss Kibbel tutted and groaned the cat slipped inside and ran up the stairs. The room she went for was closed, and without opposable thumbs it would’ve been impossible to turn the handle. But the little window up top stood permanently ajar, and with little to no effort the cat made her way up the shelves in the hall, jumped up the window’s ledge, and dropped in like the cat burglar she was. Wait – why was she here again? She scanned the room… Oh why was it so hard to remember?

It was the noise miss Kibbel made downstairs that did the trick, and deftly the feline hopped onto the bed, locking onto the clock. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The cat’s eyes barely moved, focusing on the hands of time. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Not a minute later a groggy Minka stumbled out of her bedroom, half wondering where she was and why she smelled of discarded mackerel tins. But with a bigger brain to process the world around her, the answers presented themselves even before she reached the stairs.

‘Minka!’ Kibbel turned when she heard footsteps coming down. ‘Where have you been girl? I came to check on you when I noticed your room was empty.’

‘Bathroom,’ Minka mumbled, scratching the dishevelled nest that was her hair. But Kibbel was not so easily deceived.

‘I took a shower dear – you weren’t in the house. Gods knows how you escaped – the window I suppose, but then what? Dropped down from that tiny ledge?’

Minka looked down at her socks. One of them had a hole in it.

‘I guess we’ll get to that later.’ Kibbel rubbed her temple as if trying to clean away smudge. ‘Tell me, what is this?’

Minka eyed what her aunt was holding up to her. It was her pink ribbon – the one she had discarded in the kitchen.

‘My…’ she began.

‘What did you do to Minx? This morning that little darling came into the shop wearing this lovely ribbon, before going upstairs. And then I found it, creased and crumpled, on the kitchen floor! And just now I saw her and she didn’t have it anymore! So I ask again, what did you do to that cat?’

‘Give me that, that’s mine!’ Minka said, reaching for the ribbon that dangled in front of her. But her feline finesse had left her, and Kibbel easily manoeuvred around her grabby hand.

‘Please! I’m not stupid, you know. If it’s yours then how did it end up with Minx? Now what did you do to her?’

Anger bubbled to the surface and Minka began to tremble. ‘You don’t get it, do you? You never do! And you say you aren’t stupid…You care more about that cat than you care about me!’

‘Don’t you wag that finger at me young lady! I care for you plenty! Took you in after your parents died, didn’t I?’

‘Don’t you dare use them as an excuse!’

‘You are horrid, Minka!’ Kibbel continued, deaf to the girl’s pleas, ‘Disappearing night after night – making your poor aunt worry sick! I should bolt that damned window shut! Now I will ask one last time: what did you do to missy Minx?’

‘Nothing!’

Miss Kibbel’s face reddened. She straightened her back and puffed herself up. ‘LIAR!’ she belted, ‘You are nothing but a horrible liar! Always complaining, eating my life savings away, but do you hear me making a fuss? No more! You are grounded, missy, until you decide to be honest with me! And if you DARE to leave the house tonight, better prepare to stay away, because you won’t be allowed back in anymore! NOW GO TO YOUR ROOM!’

Minka clawed at her head and let out a long, loud shriek, before stampeding up the stairs, slamming the door shut behind her, and shoving her face into her pillows to weep. And when she had no more tears to shed she stood up, made her bed and tidied her room, before fully opening the window. She clambered through, almost slipping over the little ledge, and softly shut the window behind her. With a quiver in her voice and a shiver from the cold she straightened, closed her eyes, and jumped.

A calico cat landed on the cobbled street.

***

‘MINKA!’

A shrill voice echoed over the cobbles of Tahawal Street, which bathed in the light of a watery sun. The sign of Muffin Tops said ‘OPEN’.

Carol and Carla, the next-door dinosaurs, came and went. No coffee was poured this morning. And to the great surprise of the lunch-going crowd, Muffin Tops was closed before noon, with the lights inside turned off, despite the door being open.

The baker sat motionless in her rocking chair, gazing out the window, seeing nothing. A meowing sound eventually made her look down.

‘Minx,’ she said, her voice faltering. The calico cat that had snuck in purred and allowed herself to be picked up. Softly she clawed at miss Kibbel’s apron, nestled into her lap, and shivered at the strokes of the baker’s calloused hand.

‘Oh Minxie girl, I think I’ve done it now,’ miss Kibbel said while staring out the shop window, ‘Minka disappeared… Oh Minx, where could she be?’

Minx’s eyes narrowed, as if she was thinking really hard. Then she flexed, yawned, and rolled on her back. Wrinkly fingers prodded her tummy, and softly the feline grabbed the lady’s wrist, only vaguely aware of the drops that fell into her fur.

Halt! Thou thieving in the night

Do not resist and fail thy flight!

Darkness' ally, fearing light

Thou wonder'st who hath thee in sight?

Hark! Fingersmith, red hands

require our deliverance.

Thy illicit act demands

precipitated reprimands!

Heed Council consideration,

'Tis the binding law o' nation.

Frogspawn jelly, crime cessation,

Witness our deliberation!

- Ribbit - One has let it slide.

- Ribbit - One has taken side.

- Ribbit - One your sins denied.

- Ribbit - One the gallows eyed.

- Ribbit - One your guilt implied

- Ribbit - One in favour plied

- Ribbit - One cannot decide

'Tis a draw! Who doth preside?

Ribbit! Croak! Cacophony!

Consensus offers nobody!

Have at thee! Have at thee!

O, are we ever to agree?

Halt - the accused be where?

Fled the scene without a care!

Flee, miscreant! But beware:

Our judgment thou shalt bear!

The splash of boots stampeding through puddles echo over the deserted plaza. Hoods and cowls obscure grim faces, anxious to move, move, and move! Boxes and crates and packs and bags; trinkets and baubles and whatnots and gauds. The foreman hollers against the wind instructions that fall on deaf ears, eyes strained against an onslaught of rain. He stands alone, a centerpiece ignored – the willing heart of a failing body. His bristled brow plays a curious dance; a concoction of expressions that betray his fatigue and desperation. But like a soldier who cannot give in, even if the battle is lost, so does the foreman exhibit a stubborn resolve, and ushers on his fellow marketeers, the foolishly brave.

At the entrance of the square, at his master’s flank, one merchant fails to put up his poles, winds whipping and beating the canopy. The tarp is in tatters and, defeated, allows the wind to whistle through its scars, mocking the man’s futile attempts at taming his beast. He has not seen the crate of bruised apples, which lies cracked and upside-down, wedged between his would-be stand and the slick stone wall of the Brownstone on his right, for the poles are groaning in their attempt to lie down, and require his full attention. His teeth are clenched at the burning of rope against his palms as they are desperate to escape his waning grasp.

Elsewhere two oxen groan against the crack of the whip, their agony worsened by the burden on their backs; the leather straps that hold such heavy bags, though slickened with rain and mud, bite into their hides like vicious dogs, the pain stubborn and unrelenting. Not through the city gates yet they pull their weights forth, eyes shining in brilliant madness. They ignore their master’s cries and the flogging he gifts them, for what drives them forth with foaming mouths is the promise of wet hay that lies ahead, as well as the subconscious, instinctual knowledge that their backs will soon be burdened no more.

To the foreman’s right a tugging war of sorts happens upon a young errand boy and his mule – both equally stubborn in their foolish desire to have the other give in first. Unlike the great oxen at the gate the ass finds no allure in the sloppy heap of hay, and with an iron will (and devious delight, mayhap?) it denies the boy the pleasure of cooperation. Similarly the young lad, his hair plastered to his face and his arms trembling with fatigue, resorts to a mulish determination – the irony of which is completely lost on him. The rain’s continuous assault is ignored, or perhaps not even felt, by these equally opposing forces of will. The clash, indefinitely, persists.

Towering above all stands a figure, bronze and graven, overseeing the miserable lot that grovels at its mighty feet. The gold-plated collar of office that was meant to embellish his might instead becomes a chain, undermining his good nature in unintended mockery. In the absence of sunlight his smile has turned callous, like a deranged God who relishes the suffering of his minions, stone-cold eyes devoid of meaning and life. He is a monument, a testament, to the negligence of nobility – but the merchants down below pay it no heed, for this is a fact they already know and feel, oh yes, from the intrinsic knowledge that the aristocracy sleeps, warm and undisturbed and very much unaware of the struggles of lesser men, who toil in torrential torment that means to drown them, if only it can, if only it can…

Oh maiden fair, why do you weep?

No well of sorrow is dug to deep.

Come wipe your tears and do relate

The troubles that befell your fate.

Oh wise old sage, your listening ear

Is not meant my burdens to bear.

Please let me be and worry not,

Continue on your sullen trot.

Oh maiden fair, I understand.

Allow me instead to take your hand,

For danger lurks under these trees

From beasts most foul to witches’ deeds.

Oh wise old sage, you are too kind,

Alas I must once more decline.

For though the night is dark and cold

My broken heart long was foretold.

Oh maiden fair, how could it be?

Are we to meet here by prophecy?

For that which drove me to this plane

Were magic forces most arcane.

Oh wise old sage, is it not said

How curiosity’s best not bed?

What if the spell that summoned you

Was that of witchcraft, vile and slew?

Oh maiden fair, I carry a stick

Which wards off any ol’ witch’s trick.

I shan’t be bested, I cannot yield

As long as my trusted wand I wield.

Oh wise old sage, how can it be?

This wand of yours I wish to see.

My, it does shimmer ever so much!

It must feel wondrous to the touch.

Oh maiden fair, I read your wish;

I’ll lend you my stick for a single kiss.

Here, hold my wand in your hands so sleek,

Then plant your lips upon my cheek.

Oh blind old man, you played the fool!

Now you are naked without your tool.

For it was I who lured you here

To take your life and all you hold dear.

Oh cunning witch, your trick is most vile!

How could I have fallen for your wiles?

I’m blind no more, though it is too late;

Let me make peace with my fate.