...when the first Divine Man Izanagi returned from the realm of Death covered in dirt and decay, he went to cleanse himself in the holy stream. Amaterasu sprung from the water with which he cleaned his left eye, and Tsukiyomi was born from the waters from his right eye.
Amaterasu became the Goddess of the Sun and Tsukiyomi the God of the Moon and they ruled the realm of Man together. But one day Tsukiyomi attended a feast in Amaterasu's stead and when he found the Food Goddess Uke Mochi preparing his meal by vomiting rice and fish and defecating the game, he slew her in disgust. Amaterasu refused to see him after that and took to the heavens; and Tsukiyomi followed, for with Amaterasu in the heavens he could not stay on Earth. But the realm of Man still had to be pacified and so Amaterasu sent her grandson to do her deeds among the living. Thus far, the legend tells the truth. However, not even the Sumeragi are aware... ...that with Amaterasu's offspring walking the Earth the balance of Yin and Yang demanded that Tsukiyomi too bear a substitute into the world of Man. And the next day a sakura sprouted from the dark soil. The Sakura. Thus Amaterasu's children watched the day and the Sakura guarded the night. For a thousand years the Sakura remained unchanged, watching Amaterasu's children chase the ghosts of the dead while it hunted the living who vexed the realm of Death. But the spiritual power of Amaterasu spread from the Imperial house and prospered in the populace. And with the Sun Goddess's light spreading, the shadows spread, too, becoming darker, more dangerous, and more difficult for the Sakura to contain. Then a man came from a land called Chen in the South, fleeing from civil war and a price on his head for he was too close to the throne of a dying dynasty; and with him two things came to the land: Onmyodo and Benzaiten. The first he practiced, the latter he worshiped. And on the brink of spiritual war, with a dead emperor lying on its roots, the Sakura struck a deal... ...because of which a young onmyoji startled out of death stupor with the name of his dying sister on his lips on a hot August day fourteen-hundred years later. Tokyo Station Tokaido Shinkansen - Hikari [Tokyo - Kyoto - Shin-Osaka] August 14, 1991 — Midday Tokyo Station was crowded and loud. Loudspeakers blared information about train schedules and tracks through the din of countless voices. The people milling about on the Shinkansen platform were a blurred mass to Subaru's eyes. Railway assistants in their blue uniforms and white gloves had cordoned off a small section of the platform, saving them from the crush of people, and were busily helping his grandmother with her wheelchair into the center car with its green class compartments. Distant relatives whose names and faces Subaru didn't know framed them; silent, dark-clad entities who had been trailing them since they'd left the apartment in Shinjuku this morning. As long as Subaru could remember, his grandmother had never traveled with a personal guard. As long as he could remember, he'd never had bodyguards, either. There'd also never been a green class compartment reserved for them; a seat reserved in standard class had always sufficed. A lot of things had changed since... then. Subaru felt a muscle in his cheek twitch at the evasion. He ought to face it directly. He had to if he wanted to fulfill his promise. If he— The sigil scars on his hands tickled when he was about to follow his grandmother into the car. He whirled around at the faint blue glow — and found his way blocked by two of the guards, taking a firm hold on his arms and shoulders. Subaru froze in their grip. They weren't just protecting him; they were guarding him. "Subaru-san," his grandmother's quiet voice came from the railway car behind him. "Please be sensible and don't cause a commotion. O-Bon ends tomorrow. We have to bury your sister." "I would prefer you to cover your hands again, Subaru-san," grandmother said sternly after the railway attendant had closed the compartment door behind them, the shadow of one of the guards remaining visible through the frosted glass panes. "The marks will raise unfavorable questions about you. Our escorts know to keep silent but other people may not feel so inclined." Subaru didn't answer. Tracing the no longer glowing scars on his right hand with slightly unsteady fingertips, he stared out the window next to his seat. The train wasn't moving yet. "Subaru-san, you may not realize it, but you are in a grave situation that cannot wait. Since this is probably the only time we can speak without untoward listeners before attending the funeral, I ask you, what happened between you and that man?" The train was moving... "Is he the one who was with you on Tokyo Tower last year?" ...gaining speed rapidly... "Did it go on for that long?" ...it would reach traveling speed when passing Ginza. The bone in his right arm had long healed but the regeneration of muscles and sinews had been stalled by his catatonic state; the same went for the broken ribs, though the absolute rest had actually helped with the pierced lung. He recalled the lecture the chief physician had given him that morning about the appropriate exercise and care he had to take to achieve a complete recovery. Complete recovery. The words didn't make sense. "Subaru-san, I am talking to you." He finally turned his head to look at his grandmother. For the blink of an eye, the shadow of a bridge shrouded her face in darkness. She studied him sternly; her hands clasped tightly in her lap. He remembered those hands around him, touching, anchoring, holding him in the moment his sister's death had ripped through his soul. One of the few times she'd held him. She'd felt warm— "It displeases me to speak of such indelicate, private matters — and I don't intend to mention any of this again — but we have to determine how far your dignity has been breached." Subaru blinked. "We?" he asked tonelessly. "The elders. You are the head of the clan. Your unblemished dignity is our concern." Another bridge shadow crossed her face. "Your medical records state that you have not been violated. But tell me truthfully—" She searched his eyes, held them firmly. "How far did you venture down the path of Shudo?" Subaru looked at her, uncomprehending. "Did you perhaps engage... willingly?" The racing train was suddenly dead still. Subaru had never felt so cold, so alone. Hokuto's death was an open wound in his soul, her laughter, her embraces, her support... ...of him... of... him. Her murderer. He felt sick. His grandmother was still studying him. A frown had begun to crease her forehead. Turning back to the window, he finally managed to bite off an answer against the bile on his tongue. "No." He saw his grandmother's reflection in the window pane nod in relief, saw his own eyes reflected there. Dull eyes, more grey than green now. He wondered what Seishiro had seen in his face that day and what he would see now. His ungloved hands balled into fists at the thought. No! He wished the Shinkansen would rattle in its tracks like the old trains on the slower lines. The rattling would remind him that the world was still moving. "Subaru-san." His grandmother's hand came to rest on his. The touch no longer held any warmth for him. "You mustn't succumb to hatred. Hatred is his way, not ours." "You're wrong." His words were faint, flat, spoken toward the window. The Sakurazukamori doesn't care enough to hate. If only he could say the same of himself. Sagano-cho, Kyoto (West) Sumeragi Family Residence August 14, 1991 – Evening It was hot and humid; a sweltering, choking heat encompassing them when they arrived. Servants scurried between the limousine and the house, preparing the ramp at the engawa for his grandmother's wheelchair, carrying luggage, brushing sand off the stones in front of them... all in the shadow of the silent guards. He had visited countless times while he stayed in Tokyo. Had taken the Shinkansen in the morning, had cleansed himself and paid respect to his family's kami and their honored deceased, before holding the tea ceremony with his grandmother. Then they'd discussed the matters for which he'd been called, and he'd taken the last Shinkansen back to Tokyo to go to school half-asleep the next morning. This time he hadn't been called. This time he wouldn't have to run for the last train, and he wouldn't attend school tomorrow. He wouldn't ever again. White-clad servants swarmed around his grandmother, cleaning the wheels of the chair she now needed. She had always appeared so strong, so unmovable to him and now— He clenched his hand silently as he followed her into the depths of the ancient house. The tatami crunched faintly under the wheels, now that the impurity of travel had been banished with salt from what she could no longer leave outside because she had defended him against his own foolishness. A faint breeze wafted around his head, spread cool over his sweat-dampened clothes. The dark openwork carvings of the centuries-old transoms were uncovered, allowing the air to move freely throughout the house. As clan head he was entitled to a room of his own; but one of the fusuma separating it from the inner hall had been removed, and the wall he shared with grandmother's suite of rooms wasn't solid either. It meant temperatures remained bearable inside. It also meant that there would be no word, no gesture of his that wasn't heard, observed, judged. For the first time Subaru wasn't sure it would be judged favorably. When Hokuto had occupied the small chamber next to his rooms for herself, all the fusuma had been closed and the transom had been boarded even in summer in spite of the heat. Rock and pop music had thundered from her room, rattling fusuma and shoji in their tracks; and her laughter had threatened to shake the ofuda from the walls. Rock and pop and laughter... Now it was silent and the fusuma had been removed. One of the guards brought his luggage. A maid hurried to unpack his belongings into the closet. Both refused to look at him. The shoji to the garden was also open. Another black shadow stood to the side of it, deceptively at ease watching the pond smoldering in the heat of the reddish late afternoon sun. The first fireflies were dancing above the murky waters. Cicadas chirped in the distance. The air smelled of ash and incense, the scent of O-Bon, the festival of the deceased. His sister was now among them. O-Bon would end tomorrow. He would make sure that she knew to go to the other world then. A plain dark yukata was laid out for him, not yet the black silk mofuku for the mourning rituals. The yukata would have to bear his soiled touch until he had found the strength to purify himself. The mofuku must not be spoiled. The yukata... He ignored it and stepped in front of the kamidana, the white wooden shelf holding representative tablets of his family's gods that had been an integral part of his southward rooms since he could recall. He knelt as he was: in jeans with his sweat-soaked shirt sticking to his back. It was the plainest shirt Hokuto had ever chosen for him and he knew the shirt would just 'disappear' when he took it off — and all that would remain was the yukata now, the mofuku later, and— He shut his eyes against the pain. He'd barely cleansed his hands and face and approached the highest gods, causing a stir of disapproving whispers from servants and relatives alike. He bowed his head and prayed in silence, begging for the gods to watch over his sister until she found her way to the other world, begging them to forgive him for addressing them in this state of impurity. August 14, 1991 — nearing midnight He'd personally wrapped up the kamidana in white rice paper after extinguishing the reverence lamps. The spirit chamber was opened by now; countless lights were lit in front of his ancestors' grave tablets, flickering in unfelt breezes. Rice was offered, and sake. Two of his more distant relatives observed the preparations for the funeral, purifying the rooms with salt and covering the well-wishing ofuda on the doors with white paper; others were holding the wake in front of an empty casket in his stead, while he was to undergo purification. Hokuto was his sister, his second half; he should have been the chief mourner in accordance with his torn heart; but he was also the head of the clan, their strongest spiritual guide. He wasn't allowed to ease his pain. He was to direct the ceremony. Hokuto's brother wouldn't be at her funeral; the head of her clan would be. Fire bowls cast an uneasy light in a night filled with the sounds of falling water, crackling fire, and cicadas. A small stream fell over the rock above his head to lose itself in the shallow waters of the pond it had carved in centuries of continuous flow. Countless generations of Sumeragi had used the place for their ritual purification. Subaru sat motionless on flat stones, shivering in spite of the heat lasting deep into the night. Colorful paper lanterns were sailing across the sky above him, guiding the deceased during O-Bon; the white ones representing those who had died in the last year. Many burned out soon, but some hovered for hours before the candle heating the air inside them flickered and died, or lit the rice paper and tumbled the lantern into a fiery death. It was said that lanterns falling in flames belonged to those who had been murdered. If the saying was true then his sister's lantern would fall. I, and only I, will kill him. The water flowed over him. He had to let the thoughts flow with it... I will kill him. Seishiro. He could dismiss everything and everyone from his thoughts but Seishiro. He could consider everyone equally special to him but Seishiro. Him he wanted to kill. Him he wanted to k— Subaru shivered. The lies and the truths were carved into his soul like nothing else would ever be. Seishiro's, and his own. His grandmother was right. He was... ...touched... ...soiled... ...changed. The flowing water tugged at his arms as he closed his fists. I, and only I, will kill him. I will kill him. ran like a mantra through his meditation, a mantra ringing hollow in his soul, calling a god not meant to be his. I will kill him. He bowed to his family's gods, begging forgiveness. August 15, 1991 The shoji between the spirit chamber and the great hall had been removed. The plain casket made of white hinoki wood was displayed in front of the tiers holding the grave tablets of the ancestors. The Sumeragi were an old clan; often challenged, never overcome. There were so many tablets by now, standing in rows upon rows with the oldest ones occupying the top shelf, the kanji of their names all but bleached from wood darkened by age; those in whom the gift had been developed most strongly held the center of the tiers and the weak got the side boards. Much as in life, Subaru thought. Behind him, his relatives took their places in order of rank and power on embroidered cushions aligned in the great hall, paying reverence to one of their own now dead. Hokuto's tablets would come to the lowest shelf, toward its left corner. The place was already cleaned and marked. The center of that shelf was left empty, but directly to its right stood two tablets side by side: plain white wood with golden kanji spelling his grandfather's name and a similar one with the two topmost kanji in red: his grandmother's, who'd pledged faithfulness at her husband's grave and marked it for everyone to see and therefore was no longer to be addressed by her given name. A month ago, she'd almost had the two red kanji colored in gold. Almost. She had survived. He had... hadn't he? Ceremonial lamps flickered in front of the plates. Incense urns left and right of him filled the spirit chamber with smoke and the scent of burning cedars. The ding of a small bell told him that everyone had taken his place. He bowed his head, clapped his hands three times, and began with the invocation. The white ceremonial robe glowed in the light of the countless lamps on the tiers, obscuring the black mofuku he wore underneath. Black adorned with pentacles underneath white... and uncovered hands scarred with pentagrams. He had not covered his hands as his grandmother wished. The ancestors' grave tablets seemed to waver in the smoke and the unsteady light of the flames. Today their number would grow by one. Today he was leading another one of their descendants to their ranks and rows. His sister. His second half. He prayed she'd be welcomed. The grave tablets watched in silence. He prayed the ancestors would help his sister to find her way easily. The band of prayer beads clicked faintly as he finished the turn, bowed his respect and began the final sutra. The casket in front of him was closed. And empty, except for the offerings. Hokuto's body had never been found. Smoke from the final O-Bon fires on the hills surrounding Kyoto mingled with the incense, making it hard to breathe. He was standing in front of the endless rows of his ancestors, awaiting their judgment for himself so that they might not judge his sister. Having failed at purification, he was soiled. The white shikifuku over the black mofuku was an apt symbol for his standing among the clan. Pure on the outside; soiled within. He, who was unable to banish her murderer from his thoughts, put all his faith, all his spiritual strength into his incantation. It was his fault, not his sister's. His alone. His sister was pure at heart and deserved her place among the ancestors holding guard over the Sumeragi. She did. He himself... would be another matter. He closed his eyes, called for her in his mind. Having died during O-Bon when the dead visited the living, her spirit had to be confused and displaced. He called her to give his farewell, his love, the forgiveness that she had begged of his catatonic form and needn't have asked, and to lead her on towards where she had to go and he couldn't follow. Not yet. °°°Hokuto-chan.°°° He concentrated even more, felt a faint tugging, a pull as if there was a hint of a ghost's presence just beyond his reach. He followed it, poured himself, his essence, his own spirit into it, ignoring the ceremony's demands... This wasn't Within. This had no clear limits, no boundaries and shapes. This was... a veil obscuring the line where the realms of Life and of Death touched. The taiji, symbol of his art, of the duality of Yin and Yang, was said to be white and black; yet there was one spot that was neither: the line where black became white — and white became black — in the spirit space the veil was the line, seemingly clear and yet all undefined, neither black nor white. Grey. °°°Hokuto-chan!°°° he was crying, reaching further, deeper into the mists. °°°Ho—°°° The sigils on his hands flared, searing, burning his flesh. Gnarled black roots shot up in a tangled web, blocking his path. One lashed out, whipped him across the chest, tearing the shikifuku. Prayer beads bounced about, disappearing in the mist. Blood soaked the white cloth that now hung in rags, its tatters glowing in the eternal twilight. The roots flailed again, pushing, shoving him back— Hands were around him, holding him, anchoring him; countless voices whispered devotions, prayers. Grandmother... He collapsed in the spirit chamber, under the disapproving stares of the grave tablets of countless Sumeragi long gone, his shikifuku torn and bloodstained, gaping open to reveal an immaculate black mofuku underneath. His clan's prayers were holding him back, shielding him from the black roots reaching for him. The scars on his hands glowed blue, their light shimmering on the mofuku. Black silk unstained by blood... Death wasn't bloodied. Life was. "Hokuto-chan..." he all but sobbed, exhausted, plaintive, hating himself for it. "Hokuto-chan. Where are you?" He came to himself in his darkened room with his grandmother sitting beside the futon on the floor. Somebody had pushed her wheelchair aside and closed the shoji. All the shoji. For once there was privacy. Protective ofuda of his grandmother and some of his spiritually strongest relatives were lining the walls above and below his own ricepaper-covered ofuda. He blinked in the twilight, feeling parched dry, and tried to sit up. His arms trembled at the attempt. "Easy, Subaru-san." His grandmother dabbed his temples with a cloth smelling of mint oil and something more sacred. "You've been burning up with fever." The old woman closed her eyes briefly. "You almost ventured too far. Why, Subaru-san?" The hand holding the cloth to his temple trembled slightly. "You of all people know better than that." He swallowed against his dry mouth and the lump in his throat. He didn't trust his voice when he finally forced the words out. "Hokuto..." He balled his hands into the sweat-dampened cloth of the futon. "Obaa-chan. Hokuto wasn't there." His grandmother's hand stilled.
Notes: Shudo (abbrev. of Wakashudo, "the way of the youth") is the Japanese tradition of age-structured homosexuality prevalent in samurai society from the medieval period until the end of the 19th century. Onmyojutsu includes components of Shinto, Buddhism, Taoism, various Chinese concepts, and a good touch of the Indian Vedas. Therefore I abstain from using strict Shinto or Buddhist rites for the Sumeragi household observances (also because I don't know enough of either religion to do it justice in writing) but use a mixture of the above, with daily observances being more Shinto and funeral customs being tinged with Buddhism. If I accidentally commit any absolute no-no, please let me know. I don't intend any offense.
For old Shintoist and Buddhist home shrine and funeral rites I suggest chapter 2 of "Glimpses at Unfamiliar Japan" by Lafcadio Hearn
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