3

The only breeze reaching my nostrils carried the odor wafting from my armpits. Thinking about my underarms made them itchy. Reaching into my faded emerald robes, I scratched with vigor. My skin reddened with irritation and my face wore a scowl.

A fly buzzed around my face, landing in my hair. “Be gone, fly, before I banish you to the same hell as the bloodsucker.” The threat seemed to work.

If my armpits were sticky before, they glued my arms to my body now. I tied the robe around my waist, exposing my torso to the elements. Had there been a breeze it would have felt good. As it was, I somehow felt worse, but left my robes the way they were in an attempt to cool off.

Soon, I came across a weathered, wrinkly faced peddler traveling between sales venues. The donkey pulling her cart eyed me, as if I were a thief scheming to lift her handmade wares.

“Give me a drink, woman,” I croaked.

With one of her long sleeves she covered her nose. “You reek.”

“I'm on the verge of death. Water.”

“Buy something from me,” she crowed. She lifted a beaded necklace which reminded me of the monk. Pushing it out of my face, I said, “Water. Please, woman. Water.”

She blinked several times, and though her eyes were barely slits, she squinted even more. “That scar on your face…”

My back stiffened and I turned the scarred side of my face away from her. “It's nothing. Simply the stripes of a warrior.”

“Stripes from a sky serpent more likely,” she said. “You’re him, aren't you? The accursed youxia.”

I gnashed my teeth at her. “What does it matter who I am? I need water.”

“Trade me, then.”

The fly came back, pestering me. I swatted at it with vigor, missing every time. “I have nothing to trade.”

Her weathered eyes roamed over my glistening torso. “Were I a younger woman—”

I cut her off. “What do you want from me, hag? What task could my strength avail you?”

“Chop me some firewood.”

Muttered curses slipped out under my breath, some for the fly, and some for her. She produced a small hand axe from amongst her wares. I wasted no time, only precious breath and sweat. Before long, I produced a sizeable pile of firewood.

As payment she handed me a small stack of pulpy square paper. To be fair, it was of excellent quality. Each page cut into a precise square, each piece dyed a vibrant color. But they held no value to me.

“No, give me my drink.”

“You don’t understand, wanderer. This is enchanted paper intended for folding—”

“I don’t care. Give me water.”

She shuffled awkwardly, rising to her feet. I held out my hand, expecting some sort of jug or pitcher to be given up.

“I barely have enough water myself.” She raised a mottled hand and pointed with a bony gnarled finger. “Over on yonder mountains are waterfalls that never cease to flow.”

Mountains reached to the skies like the massive fingers of some fallen eldritch giant. Evergreen trees spread over them like a living cloak. Serene clouds brushed the sides of the still sentinels, surrounding them in fresh, damp air.

But I was nowhere near those mountains. They had eluded me for some time.

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I said nothing to her but a scream of rage left my lips. I gripped my paper in one hand and my hilt in the other and left before I cut her down on accident.

4

By the time I reached the bottom of the mountain the soles of my feet were sweaty, yet dry dust found a way between my toes. My hair was caked to the back of my neck and my forehead was slick with sweat.

Though finding water was doubtful, anger still boiled in my veins when I did not catch sight of any. Instead a tottering fence met my eyes and the sounds of the hichiriki reed flute drifted from the enclosure.

Perched on the edge of the fence sat a wrinkled old man with a hair as white as heron feathers. His spindly legs dangled, his feet just brushing the mud. In the enclosure behind, pigs bathed in the muck, rolling to the tunes of the flute.

He played the hichiriki with much fervor, but not much skill. I wrinkled my face and covered my ears. “Ho, old man, stop that. The pig squeals make better melody.” I alarmed the old man so that he almost fell from the fence, but caught himself on a wiggling post. The pigs snorted and moved closer to meet me. The old man laughed in spite of being startled.

He was mere steps from me and I forgot to hide my scar, but he seemed to look at me and through me all at once, with a glossy, dead stare.

“Are you blind as well as tone deaf, pig farmer?”

He laughed again. “I am.” He drew close, following my voice. Before I could stop him, the man reached out and touched my face. I recoiled, thinking that his hands would stink, but they smelled of fresh earth. His hand ran over my scars, but if he knew who I was, he did not react, nor was he taken aback. Then, his fingers brushed over my calloused and cracked hands. His wrist bumped into my hilt and he knew what I was then. He bowed to me. “What can I do for you, warrior?”

I bit my lip. “You give me too much honor, old man. I am no warrior but a forsaken youxia.”

“Still, I am at your service. Ask anything of me.”

I paused. “Where can I find fresh water?”

“I just drank the last of my water.” He grimaced. “I have water for them,” he said pointing to the pigs, “but I do not think it is fresh. They have been drinking out of it.”

I followed his finger with my eyes and then with my feet. Stepping into the enclosure, mud hiked up my legs and soiled the bottom of my trousers. I did not care. I submerged my face in the trough. It was disgusting and there were particles of food and other things floating in it but I drank until my stomach was full. Then the aftertaste hit me and I vomited it all up.

After catching my breath and wiping the bile from my beard, I rose to my feet. The old man laughed at me again, but unlike the monk, I could not hate him for it. “I'm sorry the water did not agree with your stomach,” said the man.

“That is okay,” I said, heaving again. “How can I repay you, old man?”

“Repay me?”

I looked around for something to do but the pig herder seemed content. Then I remembered the paper. Smiling, I drew it from my robes. With quick fingers, I sifted through colorful sheets seeking a color that reminded me of the pink lotus flower. Once I found it, I folded the paper, creasing the corners with my fingertips. Turning the paper around and over, I flipped edges, tucked corners, and lifted folds. Soon, I presented him the perfect replica of a pink pig. My clever smile faded under his glossy gaze. My talents were wasted on a blind man who could not appreciate the paper rendition of his livestock.

I pressed the paper pig into his hand. “Gently,” I said not wanting him to crush it. His brow wrinkled in contemplation at first, then his eyebrows hiked up his forehead. A smile warmed his face. “So, there is more to this youxia. I feel it. A practitioner of the folding paper art of zhezhi. Very good.”

I shrugged. “It is a passion of mine,” I said softly. The old man turned the pig over and over in his hand, examining every side and angle of it.

A loud groan echoed down the mountain. We both turned to regard the cry.

“You know,” said the pig herder, “we would have clean water here if it weren't for the dorotabo. The bile muck it makes runs down the mountain, ruining everything. But I have found a good opportunity in it,” he said laughing. “It is perfect for pigs. But still, it makes finding fresh water hard. I have to walk very far to get it. I stumble often.”

It was then that I noticed the bruises on his arms. No doubt more were hidden beneath his tunic.

I brought my hand to my mouth, stroking my mustache and beard stubble. “Why has no one removed the yokai? The monk, perhaps?”

The old man waved his hand in dismissal. “The monk would rather meditate. He is too lofty for his own good, I'm afraid.”

“Is there no one else?”

“We have no other warriors here. One by one, families have left this valley as the yokai's corruption spreads.”

I envisioned the old man stumbling, alone, groping about for water in the eternal darkness, not a soul to help him. Meanwhile, the creature of chaos went unchecked.

And it was not just the blind pig herder. He had said so himself. Families had been forced to leave already, abandoning their land, their homes, and their memories. Who was I to complain that I had no water for today? These people would never have clean water again. They were helpless and hopeless.

Unless...

I tightened my calloused hands into fists. “I will end the dorotabo.”