He was a massive terror; a demon of perhaps seven
feet tall or more. His head – evil and loathsome – was
as huge as a grotesque pumpkin. From the tip of his
gnarled horns right down to his cloven hooves, he
was darker than a raven’s wing – silent too; though it
was fortunate he did not possess any means of flight,
for he lumbered about clumsily like an angry
old badger. She held firm and tight in her grasp, until the oni
grabbed and threw her to the ground. But I am proud
to say that she possessed the courage of a warrior,
a bold one who plunged back into the heat of battle.
Though it was impossible to see the tangerine shape
weaving in and out from the storm, I knew then that
the roars and shrieks of pain were too deep and low
for a fox to cry.
His breath, sharper than iron, smelled of rotting
mushrooms and beetles. And just as it had started, it was all over. The oni had
vanished, but the ground would not swallow his blood.
They showed like huge splatters of ink – black as his
soul – leading back into the forest.
Then he turned to face me, and his jaws parted in a
sinister smile.
They were the sight of a thousand nightmares; a
cavern of blades filled with the stench and bits of
bloody meat. So be it, I thought. I would laugh in the
monster’s face, unwilling to give in without one last
fight. I prayed for my death to be quick. The oni was
just about to grant my wish when I heard the rustling
of paws scampering from the forest.
And then I realised it was the same blood on her
snout, the night I last saw her. The fox was staring into
the woods, as though longing to finish the job, but not
before she turned to look back at me.
Now you know the truth, she said. But I must go.
Remember me in your stories and songs, for I
will always love you.
No amount of paint could disguise the feeling of
sadness and aching in her heart.
And with a flick of her brush, she was gone.
That was the last time I saw my painted fox, as well as
the oni.
She was still a vision of elegance, but how she had
changed! The fox walked up to the oni, still dressed in
her kimono, and when she extended her paws
and swished her tail at him, she moved as though in
a dream. But I doubt she would want to make herself be seen
– especially after her deeds became the talk of the
village people. Whenever I return from my wanderings,
I watch the farmer reap his harvest with the same
plough. I see the fisherman reel in his catch with the
same net, while the blacksmith strikes his ores with
the weary blows of his hammer.
He picked her up, wondering if she would make a fine
plaything – or his next meal. Everything is just as I remembered, yet a new
celebration of life takes place.
Then she leapt upon his neck and sank her fangs
in deep, ignoring the anguished howls, the rivers
of blood and the oni trashing himself about like an
enraged dragon. Once a year, on the night of the oni’s disappearance,
the villagers get together for a huge festival. A bride
and groom are chosen to marry, while prayers are
offered for the crops to grow and keep the village
safe. There is plenty of drinking, dancing and making
Then a tiny shape came forth to challenge him.
109
Once, when I was younger and reckless, I accidentally
strayed into the path of a flying arrow. Had it not been
for a blind woodsman who still knew his way around
with herbs, I would have spent my life as a cripple, or
worse. As I stared into the darkness of the oni’s jaws,
I knew at once that those teeth were nothing
like arrows.