Gixei (Sacrifice)

Snikt.

The sound of steel against steel, of iron sharpening iron. In the quiet dusktime tenebre of an empty room, a lone candle’s light danced upon the slender knife which Sachiko Godoh wielded, casting speckles on her pale face and jade-green eyes.

Sunday, May 24th, nighttime.

The candle sat upon the floor (which, thankfully, was faux-wood), at the head of a parchment disorderly rolled. A thin brush with scant tip rested in an inkwell, and one might surmise from the age of the ink on the exposed section of the parchment that this brush had just been employed by Sachiko. Their strokes formed a wheel; two concentric circles, the outer divided into twenty-four sections, the inner divided into twelve. Each of these was marked with a kanji, but not all were unique; half of those in the outer circle were repeated in the inner circle.

Now Sachiko, seeing that the knife was sufficiently sharp, tossed the iron aside and held the knife out before her, taking in every facet of its presence before she allowed it to break skin.

It was quite an exquisitely crafted instrument. Six inches of blade and six inches of handle; a foot altogether. The handle was composed of a base of lapis lazuli, which glowed a cloudy blue in the candlelight, and etchings made in gold. Most of these were simple linear accents, but at the center of mass, on either side, were etched the characters 福禄寿—Fuku-Roku-Ju.

Literally, “happiness, prosperity, and longevity”. But these were also the names of three great star-bodies, passed on from China to Japan: Jupiter, Ursa Major, and Canopus. And, of more imminent meaning to Sachiko herself, two of these characters were used to write her name: 福禄子. A semantic pun of sorts, though it inevitably drew some stares and blank looks of confusion from time to time. Actually, make that most of the time.

This had always been part of Sachiko’s gripe against her clan, and Merry was right on that point: a mage’s life could never be normal. They were given strange names, taken to strange schools, taught strange customs, made to work strange jobs, married to other strange people, had strange kids of their own, and the cycle continued. (And even Shunji didn’t have that strange of a name, so why did she?) All Sachiko had wanted to do was wait it out another year, to when she could leave her clan, change her name, and leave behind the onmyoji life for good, but time had not even granted her that.

And now, here she was, ready to do whatever it took to find the man who sought to eliminate all mages. Or so she believed.

She knew for certain that there was a man out there who sought to take her down because she was a mage. Who had, either by stalking or by the simple virtue of being well-informed, learned of her status as a mage and taken advantage of it when the right opportunity presented itself. Who was not content with the peace between Satsuma and Japan, nor with either country to its people.

And today, this morning, another one had emerged who bore a grudge against the mages’ society. The mention of the name Dokkakuji certainly struck a chord with Sachiko—she had heard it once or twice in some recount or another of the history of onmyoji—and that alone was enough to confirm to her that what this so-called Dokkakuji said was true.

These two facts, in Sachiko’s mind, could not be a coincidence. They were synchronicity made manifest, and even if they were not joined, and she not to them, they certainly would be soon.

Where will I meet the man I seek, she asked, and when must I seek him?

The time had come to take action. The blade that bore her name would now break the seal on her blood. Delicately she slid it across her wrist, back and forth, back and forth. At the first sign of crimson, she made one final stroke, and then withheld the knife. One drop trickled out. And then another. And another.

Her wrist having been directly above the center of the chart, Sachiko now began to slowly move it, spiraling out, counter-clockwise. White paper. Black ink. Red blood. Blue blade. Gold dust. Five trips she made over the inner circle, and five trips over the outer. Then she quickly grabbed some gauze that was sitting at her side and bound the wound.

She picked up the parchment, held it up above the candle’s flame. Lit from behind, it was clear where Sachiko’s blood had spilt, and where it had not. No section of the chart was spotless, of course, but two stood out to her as being almost completely blotted out with blood. In the inner circle, the space bearing the character 寅—tora, or tiger.

“The hour of the tiger…” Sachiko mused. Anywhere between three and five o’clock in the morning. She looked over at the digital clock in the room. 10:27 PM. It might be feasible.

And in the outer circle, the space blotted out bore the character 癸—mizu-no-to, yin of water. Ever-so-slightly east of north. Rolled up to her side, opposite the gauze, was a map of Satsuma. Opening it, she overlaid it with the chart.

“Kokura…?”

Again, feasible, from Kumamoto. But there was no time to waste; the last trains would likely be departing soon. Sachiko arose, laid the candle on its side so that its flames touched the parchment and the map. As they burned away, Sachiko threw on her mink-lined jacket and slipped into her shoes. Then she was out the door.

* * *

4:12 AM.

After a long and lonely train ride, the only companion she had on her car some corporate peon who was hopefully at least getting overtime, and who took this ride as an opportunity to catch some much-needed sleep, Sachiko had arrived in Kokura just before one o’clock. If only she had had some way to skip those first two hours; maybe then she wouldn’t feel as weary and heavy-eyed as she did now, staggering a bit as she roamed the lavendrously lit streets.

A short digression to explain the nature of Sachiko’s powers, as well as the powers of all onmyoji, may be due here. As with all things in onmyodo, the orientation of one’s onmyo (that is, one’s yin and yang) was governed by two main factors: time, and the position of the stars. Most people, by the sole virtue of their date and time of birth, possess little to no ability to manifest their onmyo. Onmyoji, however, plan the births of their children carefully; conceiving in the most opportune seasons, and eschewing natural birth for caesareans in the vast majority of cases.

The governing sign of the orientation of onmyo was the year of one’s birth. In Sachiko’s case, this was the yang earth rat, or bo-shi. The signs of the years, and thus the number of possible orientations of one’s onmyo, were sixty in all. But it was not enough to simply be born in a certain year to receive that year’s attribute. Instead, one had to have the month, day, and time of their birth all align with at least one aspect of one’s sign, though two or three was preferable.

The most ideal birthdate for Sachiko would have actually been December 14, as it was a bo-shi date on a bo-shi year, but a quickly-developing pregnancy forced her mother to give birth to her nearly two weeks early, on December 2. This eliminated the confluence of the elements, but nonetheless the month and date aligned with the yang rat.

Now, the sign of one’s onmyo represented a process of one of the Five Phases upon another (or upon itself), which determined the nature and properties of one’s magic. In Sachiko’s case this was earth-over-water, from the conquering cycle; the nature of her magic was to stop the “flow” of things, which for her manifested as the stoppage of time. Thus why her Hachimon Tonko allowed her to temporarily stop the flow of time.

There was another practice, among a scant few clans, to subvert the sign of the child’s year of birth by passing one of the parents’ signs on directly; this involved near-perfect alignment of the month, day, and time with this parent’s sign. Most likely this was how Karen Koizumi’s (née Dokkakuji?) orientation had turned out as fire-over-metal, as the year in which she was born was nowhere near either a hei-shin or tei-yu year.

It was certainly strange, that being born slightly earlier or later could completely change the course of one’s future in the society of the onmyoji. There were plenty of children of onmyoji who had little to no powers at all; Sachiko’s generation of the Godoh clan was unique in that respect. But her less-than-perfect birthdate, perhaps Sachiko took as a portent in and of itself.

Now, back to Kokura. Sachiko had been wandering with intent for over an hour now, going as briskly as she could while sleep-deprived through block after block after block, returning at intervals to the Shanghai Accords Park, located in the middle of downtown. It certainly helped that she could activate her Hachimon Tonko for up to a minute every few minutes, adding more than an extra fifteen minutes on to each hour. But even this seemed to be no avail to her now. She had gone through nearly all of the downtown area, including the park several times, and turned up nothing so far—not even a single other person. Perhaps it would benefit her simply to wait here; she was reluctant to go out into the suburban areas, and if her past meetings with Justo were anything to go by, mages definitely preferred parks.

Just then, as she was staring at a camphor tree in the park, her eyes caught notice of what was standing behind it: that very large chunk of rock known as Mount Adachi. One of many edges of the populated city. One did not need to believe in feng shui to know that the earth itself contained portents; that every natural formation contained some sort of sign, or had some effect on the human psyche.

From what Sachiko knew, Mount Adachi was where thousands of men and women were buried, including those Japanese soldiers who were killed during the storming of Kokura in the Second World War. If there was anywhere in the city that that man might be…

She had to hurry. Her Hachimon Tonko bought her a little time, but no more than ten minutes. She walked on and on, not even turning her head to look as the shops and office buildings turned into tiny, quiet homes; not stopping to listen as the traffic in the middle of the city, causing a din even this late at night slowly petered out, leaving only the sounds of nature.

Before long, the pavement ended. A dirt road covered by thick foliage was all that could lead Sachiko deeper into the mountain. She checked her watch. 4:37 AM. She looked back up, and froze.

There before her now was what could only be described as a phantom. A skull over his face, long and messy black hair, and the uniform of an army long gone: the Japanese People’s Army.

But Sachiko had a question to ask this phantom.

“Are you Jotaro Niiro?”

“I am,” replied he, putting a hand up to his face to doff his mask. “What do you want from me?”

“If I have it right,” said Sachiko, “you’re out to destroy all mages. I ask you to spare me.”

“I see. And what will you offer up in exchange?”