A newlywed couple had vanished on their nuptial
night, their room ransacked and the sheets ripped
apart, like branches in a thunderstorm. They found
blood on the floor, yet the villagers agreed that this
was definitely not the work of any ordinary human, but
that of a monster. They searched the village, and sent
parties out into the forest with sickles and lamps. But
as the day drew to an end, everyone agreed the best
thing to do would be to light their candles and pray
for the newlyweds to be guided safely – on their final
journey to the afterlife.
Stories like these often require monsters, and I
thought I had found mine in the form of my painted
fox. Yes, she was a hunter, but would she really
comtemplate the idea of murder?
Suspicion hung like a spider, biting at my thoughts.
Our stream took an hour’s walk to reach the village,
and she did say that she was hungry.
I had to see her again, if only to find out the truth.
That creature, you might say if you met her for the first
time, is not a fox. It is clearly a human. Sometimes,
after she had painted on her snow-white mask,
she appeared to me as nothing more than a fox.
Sometimes I saw a woman. Sometimes I was not
even sure which side of her came out to greet me.
She was both fox and woman.
She always spoke in riddles, but I knew what she
meant as she gave me one of her secret winks. It was
here that I asked her about the disappearances from
the village. The fox laughed it off, her barks frivolous
and maiden-like.
Silly humans. They are the stronger ones,
yet they do not have the means to protect
themselves.
“So you did kill those people?”
She made a sudden lunge at me, then pulled back
like a snake rearing itself. Eyes blazing, her tail lashed
against the silent air.
You dare to question me? I am a fox. It is in my
nature to play tricks. You should know better –
you of all creatures!
She did have a point. I was the only one brave enough
to approach her; I knew my fox from ear to tail tip.
But you have done something. You have made
me feet loved for who I truly am.
“Of course. I’m sorry. You know I’ll always trust you.”
But speaking of trust felt like sand in my mouth.
Foxes do not exactly belong to an honest trade.
And no matter how much we both call our trades an
honorable art, the truth remained as such: we made
our livings by telling lies.
All stories are made from lies. And all stories are
also made from truth. That is how it is meant to
be. The question is, how will you tell my story?
Tonight, it was the fox I saw as she licked her paw and
smiled at her reflection in the stream. I saw something in her eyes when we made love that
night; not the tiniest flicker of mischief I expected – but
sadness, compassion and warmth.
“Come away with me,” I beckoned. “With your talent
as an artist and mine as a storyteller, surely we can
seek our fortunes together?” But morning came, and there were no tangerines
again. Once again, chaos mingled with dread in the
107
Some said it was the work of Yuki-onna, the snow
witch who came down from the mountains and led
weary travellers astray. Many nights, we listened with
delighted terror to the stories: her breath turned veins
into ice, and if she kissed you, all that remained of
your body was a cold and empty shell. Others blamed
the tengu, crow-like beasts with a temper to match,
and strong enough to carry off a horse in the dead
of night.
Perhaps. But not everyone appreciates what
I do. Only those who have a like mind, or are
gifted can see through my disguises.