Chapter Text
There were stories about something which lived in the mountains.
Stories of a ghost.
None of the stories were quite the same; sometimes it was a ghost of grief or mourning, and sometimes it was a ghost of sadness. To some people the ghost was one of complete and utter despair; hopelessness; of the inevitability of death. Others said – usually in a hushed whisper, when the lights were low and the shadows danced on the walls – that the ghost in the mountains was a vengeful ghost, and to walk those ill-fated paths was to be led astray and put in danger. They said that to get lost in the mountains at night was certain death.
The children would lean in close then – because this was a story often told to children – and they would ask why anyone would go into the mountains to begin with. The storyteller, usually an older brother or sister, a babysitter, someone who didn’t mind scaring them a little bit, would shrug and tell them the truth. There was a road which led through the mountains which was quicker than the road which led around them. Most people took the long way – the road was properly maintained, unlike the shortcut – but sometimes if someone was in a rush then they would take what was called the ghost road, and they would tell themselves that when there was urgency, there was no room for suspicion.
Because this wasn’t just a scary story told to children. The superstitions regarding the ghost in the mountains pervaded the entire town, and no doubt other towns which lay in the foothills and the forests. Maybe the adults didn’t look at the snowy peaks and shiver with fear when the moonlight glimmered off the icy summits, but they still lit candles and prayed when someone said they were chancing the ghost road. There were rituals for luck and safety, and if somebody made the journey then it was as though the whole town held their breath until they came back alive and unharmed.
It was rare for someone to skip the rituals; there were too many tales of what had happened to those who did. Usually the tales concerned outsiders; those who didn’t understand the mountains. They would scorn the townspeople’s superstitions and set out on their own through the shortcut of the ghost road, claiming that if everyone just got over themselves then it could be paved and developed into a proper road, and they would laugh at the fear in people’s eyes as they set off, on foot, or by horse and cart in the olden days and by car or truck in modern times. Consequences were inevitable; a punctured tire, a deer darting into the road to make them swerve; brake lines seemingly cut, and they would break down. They would be stuck there in the dark, and the fear would creep up on them like the tide coming in, slowly and surely and then all at once. Their heads would whip from side to side because they thought they saw something out of the corner of their eye, and maybe they would catch a glimpse of something pale slipping behind a tree.
There were no stories of what the ghost did when it claimed its victims. Cars would be found days later, abandoned, footprints leading away into the undergrowth. Sometimes the families of those who went missing would cause enough of a fuss that the police would make a search, with powerful flashlights and dogs, but nobody was ever found. It was the wilderness, after all; ghost or no ghost, it was an easy place to get lost.
On occasion, someone would take the ghost road without obeying the rituals, and they would escape unscathed. Such occurrences did nothing to dampen the rumours of the haunted mountains, though, because it was a vast space – it was only natural that someone might slip through the ghost’s phantom clutches. Better not to risk it, and better not to risk the road at all, because there were tales too of those who had completed the rituals to the letter and still vanished into the night.
The people of the town – the people of all the settlements close to the mountains – respected the ghost, but they feared it as well.
All except for one young boy.
His name was Fushimi, and he lived with his family at the edge of town. Their house was the closest to the mountains, with only one field separating their back garden from the thick pine forests which blanketed the foothills.
By all rights, he should have been scared. His mom had grown up in the town and she was scared of the ghost, and so was Fushimi’s big brother. His dad claimed not to be scared, but he was as nervous as anyone else if he heard that someone was chancing the road through the mountains. They were like every other family in these parts, essentially, and there was no good explanation for Fushimi’s lack of fear. Perhaps it was because he was so desperate to be grown up, which was also why he liked everyone to call him Fushimi rather than his first name. Perhaps it was because he was brave; he was always the first kid in his class at school to want to try new things. Or perhaps it was because when Fushimi heard all the tales of a ghost wandering through the forests and over the slopes, a ghost of sorrow and despair, he thought that that ghost must be terribly lonely, and the fear he should have had was chased away by the pity he felt instead. He was sad for the ghost, that poor lost soul.
It was inevitable then, that one day the ghost would meet with the one person on this earth who didn’t fear it.
*
Fushimi was ten when it happened, and it happened because rather than just being sad for the ghost, there came a day when he felt that he understood it.
Winter had fallen upon the town and the snow which crowned the mountaintops had crept down through the conifers of the forest to paint the place in white. The ghost road was all but impassable, and it was a relief in some ways for the townspeople not to have to worry about those who would chance it, at least just for a season.
And for the children, winter meant snowball fights.
That was how the argument started. The town was small enough that all of the kids were friendly with each other. Fushimi in particular was popular; everyone wanted to be his friend. He was warm and funny and generous with both smiles and snacks. When school let out that day he was the one who led his pack of classmates to the local playground, where they could pelt each other with fistfuls of snow and shriek in delight as they waged war.
Fushimi’s target was a boy named Miyazaki, who he was friends with but not best friends with, because Miyazaki had made fun of him one time when his mom had made him rice balls in the shape of hearts, and Fushimi had never quite forgiven him for that. It wasn’t the reason he was targeting him, though; the reason Fushimi wanted to hit Miyazaki with a snowball was because he was tall and fast, and therefore everyone would praise him and think he was cool if he was the one to take him out.
It wasn’t hard. Fushimi had very good aim. He packed snow in his hands, shaping it into the perfect snowball, and he ducked behind a picnic table as Miyazaki ran by. Then, when he had his back to him, Fushimi leapt to his feet and let his missile fly.
Miyazaki cried out in shock when the snowball hit the back of his head, and he went down.
“Yes!” Fushimi cheered, pumping the air with his fist.
The other kids looked over at them, and the laughter died out. Miyazaki groaned and sat up, clutching his head in his hands.
“Fushimi!” shouted Kozuka, a girl in their class who Fushimi knew definitely had a crush on Miyazaki, again because he was tall and fast. “You hurt him!”
“It’s a game!” Fushimi protested.
“You took it too far!” Kozuka jabbed a finger at him and crouched beside Miyazaki. “We don’t want you to play with us now.”
Another girl from their class, Kozuka’s friend, winced and opened her mouth to protest, but Kozuka silenced her with a look. She was the oldest, and had the best grades, so people listened to her.
“That’s not fair!” said Fushimi. “He’s not actually hurt.”
“Yes he is!” Kozuka huffed. “You can’t play anymore, Fushimi.”
“Says who?” Fushimi folded his arms and glared at her.
“Me!” Kozuka looked around at the others. “He can’t play, right?”
Fushimi looked around as well, waiting for someone to defend him. His friends were here, but they were all silent, because they all knew that Kozuka had candy in her backpack and wouldn’t share if they didn’t do what she said. He turned back to Miyazaki. “Are you really hurt?” he asked.
Miyazaki stuck his tongue out at him, clearly unharmed. “Yep,” he said.
Fushimi threw his arms up in annoyance and stormed off before Kozuka could tell him what to do again. He heard a few people shouting after him, but he didn’t want to come crawling back; they should have said something sooner, and not gotten distracted by the thought of candy. It was only when he was at the gate that he paused to look back, and saw them all playing with each other again, the argument forgotten.
Fine. He didn’t want to play with them anyway.
When he got home, Fushimi didn’t tell his mom or dad or brother about the fight with his friends. He knew that they would just tell him that it would all be okay, because to them it wasn’t a big deal when kids fought, they just assumed they’d make friends again in the morning. They didn’t understand that this was a big deal, because Fushimi had been kicked out of the snowball fight! So he pretended that he was in a bad mood because he hadn’t worn a hat that day and his head was cold, and his mom ruffled his blonde hair and told him not to be forgetful. Fushimi rolled his eyes. He ate dinner, watched TV, and went to bed.
He couldn’t sleep, though. Fushimi was angry at the injustice of the snowball fight, and he decided that he was going to do something that almost every child decides to do at some point in their life: he was going to run away.
Mostly he was thinking of the reaction at school when his classmates learned that he was missing. Kozuka would cry and Miyazaki would feel terrible, and all his actual friends would wish they’d stood up for him properly. It would serve them all right, and because Fushimi wasn’t scared of the ghost he knew exactly where he was going to go.
He wrapped up warm in a coat and a scarf and his winter boots, but he forgot his hat again. Silently, he pushed open the window and slipped out, then tiptoed to the edge of the garden and walked along beside the fence so that he wouldn’t leave footprints. The gate at the back creaked, so he climbed over it instead of opening it, then he was in the field and free to run for the forest.
Fushimi truly wasn’t scared; he was too young to worry about dangers like getting lost or freezing, and he’d always thought that the ghost was misunderstood. Once, when he was very little, he’d said this out loud – he’d said that maybe the ghost could use a friend – and his mom told him to shush and that he shouldn’t disrespect traditions. He never mentioned it again.
The forest was dark and silent because of the thick blanket of snow. Fushimi trudged along determinedly, deciding that he would go as far as he could and find a nice tree to make a new home in. He would live like a fox and dig himself a burrow in the roots. Then there would be a fox as well as a ghost in the mountains, and Fushimi thought that that sounded like a good story.
Eventually he got tired, because he was only ten and he’d been walking for maybe an hour. He’d brought a flashlight with him, a little plastic thing in the shape of a frog, and he’d had it on since he was out of sight of his house. It wasn’t very powerful, and just as Fushimi sat down on a protruding tree root to rest, the light flickered and went out.
“Oh,” he said, shaking it. The flashlight rattled. He tried to switch it on again, but it was dead.
Fushimi lifted his head and looked around.
He couldn’t see a thing.
It was the middle of the night, it was dark, it was cold, and he was lost.
Fushimi closed his eyes. His heart was pounding, but he took a deep breath and told himself that it would be okay. When he opened his eyes again he could see a little better; the snow on the ground reflected some of the scant moonlight, and that helped. Only a bit, but it helped.
A twig snapped somewhere in the distance and Fushimi sucked in a breath. He was beginning to regret his plan to run away, because what was it really for? It wouldn’t matter if Kozuka and Miyazaki were upset, because he wouldn’t be there to see it.
“It’s an animal,” he whispered, nodding to himself. “Just an animal.”
What he needed to do was think about how to get home. Could he follow his own footsteps? Maybe. Maybe if he left his flashlight off for a little bit, then it would get some power back? He didn’t know if that was how it worked, but it seemed like a good idea.
He didn’t want to just sit here doing nothing, though. If he looked closely, he could see his footsteps, so he decided to try and follow them. He didn’t want to wait in case it started snowing again.
It was slow going, though. Fushimi kept having to stop to make sure he was actually looking at a footprint and not just where the snow was naturally uneven. He kept trying his flashlight, too, but it still wasn’t working.
Another twig snapping made him jump. Fushimi looked around, but he could hardly even see the trunks of the trees, let alone what was beyond them. He blinked furiously and told himself that he wasn’t scared, because he so wanted to not be scared, because he was always the brave one and it wasn’t brave to cry.
Fushimi expected there to be a noise again, closer this time, because that was what was supposed to happen in the stories; the thing in the woods got closer, but instead there was silence. Not just the peaceful quiet of the winter night but true silence, like he was the only person left in the entire world.
It was unnerving, that silence. It was nighttime, but there still ought to have been animals about. Nocturnal ones, like owls hooting in the branches overhead, maybe some rodents which didn’t hibernate. There were no sounds at all, though, no sounds but for the occasional clump of snow falling from a tree.
Where were the animals?
Fushimi desperately clicked the button on his little frog flashlight, but it still wasn’t working. He shook it, thinking that maybe he could shake some life back in the batteries, but it would not turn on. He told himself not to cry, because he was a big boy and he didn’t want his friends to find out he’d gotten scared in the woods, even though they would all be scared it if was them.
His heart was beating too fast and he couldn’t seem to get enough air. Again he tried to turn on his flashlight and he fumbled with it, dropping it in the snow. He stooped to pick it up, but then—
He didn’t know why he turned. It was as though he could feel something there, some heaviness, some presence, and he couldn’t help but look over his shoulder to see what was there, even though his hands were shaking and his eyes were swimming with tears.
And there it was.
The ghost of the mountain.
Fushimi didn’t see very much of it. A faint glow in the shadows of the trees; white and translucent, a pale flutter of fabric draped over slender limbs. He saw enough though to know that this was a ghost, this really was a ghost, and more than that it was the ghost.
He turned and he ran.
The frog flashlight was left abandoned in the snow where he’d dropped it, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t go back. Fushimi ran as fast as his little legs would carry him but he couldn’t stop to look for footprints now. All he could do was try and make his way vaguely downhill, because downhill meant out of the mountains and back home.
All the tiredness from his trek had vanished; he was running on adrenaline now. He was terrified and fleeing for his life and he wanted to go home. He wanted to burst in through to door and go straight to his mom and dad’s room, and he wanted to crawl between them because that would mean he was safe.
Run.
It was the only thought in his mind. Run, run, run. He didn’t dare look back, but he could feel that the ghost was following him, that heaviness, and if he’d been able to think then maybe he would have thought that that was why it was considered a ghost of sadness.
Run.
He was running, but he didn’t know if he was getting anywhere. Fushimi darted between trees and leapt over roots, sometimes not going downhill but sideways, or uphill, and for all Fushimi knew he was going deeper and deeper into the forest. Maybe he would emerge on the mountainside itself, and the ghost would catch him—
Fushimi fell.
He caught his foot in a tangle of roots and went flying, his cry of terror cut off as he landed hard, hitting his head on the trunk of a tree.
Now Fushimi did cry. He howled in fear and agony, clutching his temple and feeling it wet with blood beneath his hand. It hurt. It hurt so, so much, and he was scared not just of the ghost but of the fact that he was alone out here, lying in the snow with his head bleeding.
“Why are you crying?”
Fushimi wailed again and shook his head, but that only made it hurt more. He knew who was talking to him; it had to be the ghost. The way it spoke wasn’t like a person but like an echo, the whisper of a winter wind.
“You’re hurt.”
“Please don’t kill me!” Fushimi sobbed. “I want to go home!”
“You weren’t scared before,” said the ghost.
Fushimi shook his head and howled again. “It hurts,” he said, because it didn’t matter that the ghost was right and he’d never been scared of it before – he was hurt and the blood was dripping down his face, soaking into his scarf, and he wanted his mom and dad and big brother to come and make everything better.
“Poor child,” murmured the ghost. Fushimi whimpered; it was crouching down beside him, and Fushimi squeezed his eyes shut because he didn’t want to see. He didn’t want to see what it would look like when—
When what?
Fushimi knew that the ghost wasn’t going to hurt him, because he’d always known that. Even when he was hearing the stories for the first time he’d thought that the poor ghost was sad and lonely, and that was the thought which came back to him now just as something cold touched his head and the pain vanished.
“There,” said the ghost. “Is that better?”
Fushimi opened his eyes, and he saw the ghost.
It was—
Well, it was a he for one thing. He had a delicate face, enough that he could probably be called pretty, with wide eyes framed by long, dark lashes and crimson ovals of makeup painted at the corners. Or maybe they were markings of some kind? His hair was dark, too, pulled up into a high ponytail. He was dressed in white, shimmering swathes of fabric fluttering around him like a veil.
“Oh,” said Fushimi. “You’re just a person.”
The ghost tilted his head and smiled at him. He had a nice smile, and Fushimi couldn’t help but smile back.
“Not quite, little one,” the ghost said.
It took a moment, for Fushimi to realise what he meant, but when he moved it was apparent; he wasn’t fully here. The ghost was translucent, as ephemeral and diaphanous as the clothing he wore. Fushimi thought that he looked like a beam of moonlight, beautiful and not quite of this world.
“You are a ghost, right?”
The ghost shook his head. “I’m not that, either.” He tilted his head to the side and sighed. “Neither a ghost nor a person. Something else entirely.”
“What are you?”
“Kumeyuri.”
“That’s your name?” Fushimi asked, frowning. It didn’t seem like a person’s name. “My name’s Fushimi.”
“No, that’s not my name. I’m Uruha. It’s nice to meet you, Fushimi.”
“Uruha.” Fushimi nodded. “I like that name.”
“How does your head feel?” Uruha asked. “Does it still hurt?”
Fushimi let his hand drop from his wound and looked down at him; his stomach roiled at the sight of it covered in blood, but when he touched his head again there was no pain, and no cut. There was only blood beginning to dry, sticky instead of pouring like before. Beneath the blood he could feel a little bump, like the ridge of a scar.
“How did you do that?” he said in a whisper. “You healed me, didn’t you?”
Uruha nodded and touched a finger to his bottom lip, resting it there. “I healed you,” he said softly.
“Woah,” said Fushimi. “Thank you!”
“Why weren’t you scared of me?”
Fushimi chewed his lip and tore his gaze from the pretty ghost – or not a ghost, as he said. He shrugged. “I always thought you were just lonely,” he said. “I get it.”
“You do?” Uruha tilted his head and frowned. “What happened.”
“It was my friends!” Fushimi threw his hands up in annoyance. “They wouldn’t let me play with them today, and it was only because I threw a snowball at Miyazaki too hard, and only because Kozuka said not to let me play!” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and sniffed. His head didn’t hurt anymore, but his eyes still stung from all the crying, and his knees were sore from the way he’d fallen, and he was tired again, which was probably why when he blinked, another tear ran down his cheek. “They’re supposed to be my friends,” he continued, wiping his eyes with a rough swipe of his hand. “So I know how you feel, because I’m on my own, too.”
“Oh, little one,” said Uruha. “You poor, poor thing.”
“Right?” Fushimi sighed. “But you, you’re on your own all the time. So it’s even worse.”
Uruha nodded and gave him a sad smile. “I have the animals, though. They’re my friends. The forest, too, and the mountains.”
“And me,” Fushimi said, pushing himself up onto his knees and wincing. “I’ll be your friend, Uruha.”
He reached for him, wanting to grab his hand and squeeze it, and he thought that he would be able to because when he said that he would be his friend, Uruha seemed to solidify; only a little, only seeming to be the tiniest bit more rooted in this world, but Fushimi’s hand passed right through his like it wasn’t there at all.
“Oh,” he said, and tried again; nothing.
“The man who forged Kumeyuri said that I would fade, if there was nothing to keep me anchored,” Uruha said quietly. He stood up and turned, lifting a hand and pointing to the trees. “That way is the way out of here. I’ll take you.”
“Wait, what’s Kumeyuri?” said Fushimi. He staggered to his feet, flinching at the sting in his knees and the stiffness of his legs. “Forges? Like a sword?”
“Kumeyuri is a sword, yes,” said Uruha. “My sword, and me. We’re one and the same.”
“You don’t look like a sword.”
Uruha grinned at him and laughed. “No, little one,” he said. “I don’t. Oh, I have something of yours.” He reached into the folds of his moon bright garments and pulled out some small object.
Fushimi gasped. It was his frog flashlight. “You found it!”
“You dropped it,” said Uruha. “Usually I can’t pick things up, but I could hold this,” he added. He held it out and dropped it, and Fushimi caught it. “I don’t know why.”
“Because we’re friends,” said Fushimi. It seemed obvious to him. He pressed the button and the flashlight came on, but he didn’t even need it now because Uruha was glowing like starlight beside him.
“I have something else for you, too,” Uruha said, turning to him and crouching again, so that he could look him in the eye.
Fushimi’s grin widened. He felt bad for being scared before, because there truly was nothing to be scared of. Uruha was exactly what he’d thought he was, just a lonely ghost on the mountain. Kind of a ghost, anyway, and Fushimi was glad that maybe he could help him be a little less lonely. He didn’t like anyone to be lonely, which was why he always asked everyone to play at school and why it had hurt so much that Miyazaki and Kozuka had turned on him.
“What is it?” he asked.
Uruha pulled something else out of his clothes; it was another piece of fabric, but this was dark instead of the shimmering white that he wore. “Your head will get cold,” Uruha explained.
Fushimi held out his hand and Uruha dropped the fabric – a bandana, as it turned out. It wasn’t black like he’d thought, but a dark blue, so close to black that it was hard to tell. Three stripes were embroidered on it in gold thread. “Thanks,” he said, stuffing his flashlight into his pocket so that he could tie it on. “Where’d you get this?”
“It is part of what was wrapped around Kumeyuri when it was given to me,” said Uruha. Fushimi just nodded, because he didn’t really know what Kumeyuri was, or how it could have had this wrapped around it when Uruha was Kumeyuri. Maybe it was some weird spirit thing that he just didn’t understand. “Come on now,” said Uruha. “Let’s get you home.”
It seemed to take hardly any time at all, with Uruha guiding the way. He didn’t walk like a person; though his feet touched the ground, he didn’t trip and stumble like Fushimi did. He glided along, his movements like those of a dancer. Uruha wove his way through the trees, pausing every so often to let Fushimi keep up, the soft glow of him bathing the forest in moonlight.
At the edge of the forest, he stopped.
“You’ll be okay from here?” he said.
“Yep.” Fushimi nodded and turned to Uruha. “Thank you, Uruha. For helping me.”
“I’m sorry I scared you.”
“You didn’t scare me,” said Fushimi. He looked down at Uruha’s hand and again he wished he could take it. “I’ll come back and see you sometime, okay?”
“You don’t have to do that,” Uruha said, but Fushimi could tell by the look in his eyes that he was hoping he would.
“I said we were friends, didn’t I?” Fushimi laughed. “I will come and see you, that’s a promise!”
Uruha smiled. “I’d like that a lot,” he said softly. “Now get back home, before anyone notices that you’re gone.”
Fushimi bid him goodbye and set off across the field at a jog. When he looked back over his shoulder, the forest was in darkness, but he thought that he caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure in white, fading away into nothingness.
*
Fushimi was careful when he got home. He stuffed his bloody scarf into the bottom of his laundry basket so it would go unnoticed with the rest of the load. He crept to the bathroom and washed his face, and when he pulled off the bandana he gasped.
The scar on his temple wasn’t just a scar; it was a mark. He could only see it if he looked closely, because it was hidden by his hair, but where Uruha had touched his skin and healed him there was the fainted shimmer of silver, as though he’d been kissed by moonlight.
Fushimi decided that he liked it; if it weren’t for the mark, then maybe he would have been able to convince himself that tonight didn’t happen, that he never met the ghost of the mountain.
But he did meet him, and when Fushimi crawled into bed he clutched the bandana in his hands, and decided that from now on, he would wear it always.
*
At school, Fushimi was worried that nobody was going to talk to him, but the first person who came running up to him was Kozuka.
“Fushimi, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. Some of the other kids stopped and looked over at them when they heard her shouting.
“You wouldn’t let me play,” said Fushimi, folding his arms. “You’re mean.”
“I really did think Miyazaki was hurt,” she said. “But I didn’t mean for you to go off like that, I—I should have come after you!”
Fushimi nodded. “Yes, you should have done.”
“Please forgive me, Fushimi.” She looked at him and pouted, her big brown eyes wide and sad, but Fushimi wasn’t fooled. He shook his head. “Fushimi!” she protested. “What if I give you a piece of candy every single day for the rest of the year?”
“You’re forgiven,” Fushimi said.
Later, Miyazaki apologised to him as well. He said that he saw an opportunity to get Fushimi out of the game and himself back in. Fushimi wasn’t going to forgive him, either, but Miyazaki gave him his new set of coloured pencils, and they were the expensive kind, for proper artists, so he decided to forgive him as well. Then everyone else apologised, and Fushimi found himself with pockets full of candy and new stationary, and everyone was complimenting his new bandana, which he’d worn proudly.
Everything was back to normal. Fushimi was popular again, and he had his old friends back.
But that didn’t mean that he would forget about his new friend in the forest.
*
The rituals to keep one safe from the mountain ghost were a mishmash of religion and local custom, changed and adjusted over the generations. There was a lot of praying and lighting candles, burning incense, writing words of protection on pieces of paper for travellers to take with them.
Fushimi needed none of those things.
It was a week before he had the chance to go out to the forest again, because he had to make sure it was a day where he wouldn’t have to get up for school in the morning, and at the end of the week his parents would be tired and they wouldn’t wake up when he slipped out. His big brother was staying over at a friend’s house, so Fushimi took his frog flashlight and made sure his bandana was secure on his head before he set out.
He wasn’t even scared of getting lost anymore. He knew that Uruha would help him find his way.
Indeed, Uruha appeared almost as soon as he was within the boundaries of the forest, hidden by the thick boughs of the trees.
“Fushimi,” he said with a smile. “I did wonder if you’d come back.”
“We’re friends!” Fushimi said, aghast that Uruha would think he would just not come back. “Let me tell you about my day.”
They walked through the forest together as Fushimi explained how Kozuka and Miyazaki had both made friends with him again, and how he’d had so much candy, and how Kozuka was going to give him candy every single day.
Uruha listened while Fushimi told him about his friends, and he asked questions. Fushimi got the feeling that it had been a long time since Uruha spoke to another person, and he could see that he wasn’t just pretending to listen, like adults did sometimes, but he was actually listening.
Because Fushimi was only ten, he didn’t really have anything that resembled tact, so he had no qualms about asking Uruha what exactly he was if he wasn’t a ghost.
He didn’t really understand the answer, but he listened, because Uruha listened to him.
There was something about a man named Kunishige Rokuhira, who’d forged six swords called Enchanted Blades. Fushimi liked the sound of that, so he prodded Uruha for more information – prodded him metaphorically, of course, because Uruha was still translucent and shimmering, even walking through the woods. Fushimi could get a better look at him now; it was a cloak which swirled around him like mist, then more layers of fluttering fabric, but beneath those he dressed in what almost looked like ordinary clothes, a shirt and pants and sandals, all white, all almost as pale as his skin. Even though there was no wind, his cloak and his hair both danced in a non-existent breeze as he told him about these magical swords, and how he’d been chosen specially for one.
“It was wrapped in this, right?” Fushimi said, pointing to his bandana.
“Yes, that was part of the wrapping,” Uruha said, smiling, lifting his hand like he wanted to ruffle Fushimi’s hair if he could.
“So, where is it now?” Fushimi asked.
Uruha frowned and looked off into the distance. They’d been out here for a little while now, and slowly they were making their way back to the edge of the forest. Fushimi would have stayed all night if he could, but Uruha didn’t want him to stay up too late.
“The swords—magic is like a living thing, Fushimi,” Uruha said. “The swords became a part of us.”
Fushimi wanted to know more, but Uruha shook his head and told him to wait until next time. Instead he asked him about his family, and Fushimi talked about his mom and dad and brother until it was time to go home.
As he had done the last time, Fushimi looked back at the forest as he crossed the field, and he watched the gentle glow of Uruha fade away.
*
There was something fun about having a secret. Fushimi didn’t tell anyone about Uruha, and when people talked about the ghost he hid the smile which would creep onto his face. What were they all so scared of? He tried to visit him every week, and even though Uruha was sometimes reluctant to talk about himself, he was always willing to listen.
As the snow began to thaw, someone decided they were going to chance to ghost road; they urgently needed to travel for something – Fushimi didn’t really listen when his parents were talking in a hushed whisper – and they said that they had no choice.
The usual rituals were done. Candles were lit and incense was burned. Prayers were said. The elder who knew about these things scrawled characters on a piece of paper and the would-be traveller hung the tag from his rearview mirror.
Fushimi snuck out to the forest that night, claiming that he was going to bed, leaving his mom and dad still sitting on the couch and talking about the man who’d taken the ghost road.
Uruha wouldn’t hurt that man. Fushimi knew that. He slipped out of the window as always and ran to the woods, and Uruha was waiting for him.
“Someone’s travelling the ghost road,” he said, breathless.
“I know,” Uruha said with a sigh. “I hope they’ll be safe. I can try and guide them, but sometimes if they see me it’s worse than if I just left them alone.”
Fushimi hopped up onto a tree root and windmilled his arms for balance. “You help them, too?”
“I would help anyone who needed help,” said Uruha. “I’ve tried to guide lost people, whether back to the road or to shelter if the weather gets bad. I can’t let them know that it’s me, though, because they fear what they think is a ghost.”
“How come people always go missing on the ghost road?”
Uruha sighed. “Fushimi, it’s an unmaintained track through dangerous terrain. No more people go missing here than on any other isolated road. Be careful—” he reached out as Fushimi wobbled on the root, like he would catch him even though he couldn’t. Fushimi kept his balance, though, and Uruha went on. “Those who complete the rituals are safer because without thinking, they drive more carefully. They believe themselves to be safe, so they don’t rush.”
“It seems so simple,” said Fushimi. He hopped down onto the ground and Uruha exhaled, relieved. “You don’t do anything?”
“You don’t see it, Fushimi, but to others I have no face,” he said. “And the air around me grows unbearably cold. Even in the warmer months, I leave a trail of frost wherever I walk.”
“Oh, I’ve heard those stories,” said Fushimi. “I thought they were made up.”
“I try to keep out of everyone’s way.”
“They say you’re a ghost of sadness.”
“As they should. I’ve been on my own here for—” Uruha faltered, unsure. “I don’t know, actually. There’s a cloud of cold and sorrow around me. If the wilderness doesn’t get them then the despair will. The swords were magical, remember.”
Fushimi looked up at Uruha, with his kind face and his wide green eyes. He nodded. “I remember.”
*
Winter became spring; the man who’d journeyed through the ghost road came back safe and everyone breathed sighs of relief, thankful that their rituals had worked. Fushimi rolled his eyes. That man had been safe because he was so confident in the prayers that he’d driven slowly and carefully, not feeling the need to rush.
Life went on, and Fushimi kept visiting Uruha in the forest. Sometimes he even went in the daytime, and they would walk for hours and hours. Uruha left little icy crystals behind him on the bushes and the low hanging branches, but Fushimi never felt the cold from him, nor did he feel sorrow or hopelessness. Maybe that was just for those who feared him, but Fushimi could never be afraid of his friend.
“Kumeyuri is a sword of illusions and tricks,” Uruha was saying.
Fushimi nodded. He’d asked about the sword, because he always wanted to know more, and Uruha was willing to speak about it today. He stayed quiet, not wanting to interrupt, not wanting him to change his mind.
“Reality gets… distorted by it,” he continued. Fushimi nodded again, and he went on. “I was supposed to be able to control it, to use it how I wanted, but—but I guess the magic was stronger than I am.”
Uruha sighed, and when Fushimi looked up at him he saw that he seemed sad. His heart ached in his chest; he wished that he could hug him, the way he hugged his big brother when he was upset about something. “Maybe you can get stronger?” he suggested, thinking of how he hadn’t been able to climb the rope in gym class until he’d practised a few times.
“I have no anchor,” said Uruha; he didn’t elaborate on what that meant. “Whatever should tether me to the world is—it’s not here. Even now, it’s hard to remember everything, but Kumeyuri doesn’t bend to the will of time.”
“Like on TV?” said Fushimi. “Sci-fi?”
Uruha gave him an odd look. “I suppose so,” he said. “I haven’t actually been given the sword yet.”
“What?” Fushimi pointed to his bandana. “Then how do I have this?”
“I have it and I don’t have it,” Uruha said. “Out there is a boy named Yoji Uruha, who’ll be given a sword that will become part of him, and—” Uruha scowled and shook his head, “—and a war will be fought, and that will be enough to hold him together for a while, but when it ends—”
“You’ll be a ghost again?” Fushimi suggested helpfully, though he didn’t really understand what Uruha was talking about. How could something that hadn’t happened yet have made him like this? It was so confusing that he almost tripped over. “Wait, so you weren’t always a ghost?”
“Once I was a student of a style of swordplay, called Iai White Purity Style,” said Uruha. “And yes, I’ll be—not a ghost, but this, again.”
“That’s how you’ve always been here?” said Fushimi, because the stories of the ghost in the mountains had always been around. He thought that the ghost had probably been here for longer than the towns had.
“Yes,” Uruha said. “Because I’m lost.”
“I found you,” said Fushimi. “We’re friends.”
Uruha shook his head. “The war kept me solid, but when it ended—never mind, Fushimi. We are friends, but this isn’t the time I’m supposed to be in.”
“It’s not?”
“I’m twenty… twenty something,” Uruha said. “Right now, I should be sixteen.”
“You’re not that much older than me!” said Fushimi, delighted. “My brother’s fifteen!”
“Is he now?” Uruha raised an eyebrow at him. “Tell him to be careful, in a year.”
“There’s really gonna be a war?”
“Yes.”
“So you can tell the future?”
“No.”
“But you are telling me the future.”
Uruha grimaced and shook his head again. “Only because when it ends, I get scattered across the centuries. That’s all I know. I don’t even know how old this version of me is—” he looked down at his own hands, turning them this way and that as they flickered and faded, “—I only know that I’ll become a sad story, and that people will fear me, and that I’ll make this place cold and sad—”
“I’m not cold and sad.”
“I know you’re not,” Uruha said. “You’re too young for me to be telling you all of this. I’ll take you home.”
“Alright,” said Fushimi, disappointed.
*
“Woah, how’d you get that scar, Fushimi?”
Fushimi tried to snatch his bandana back from Tamura, but he jumped backwards to avoid him. Fushimi gave up; he was lying on the floor of Miyazaki’s room and didn’t feel like getting up. “The ghost gave it to me,” he said.
“Why’s it so shiny?” said Miyazaki.
“I said, because the ghost gave it to me,” insisted Fushimi, telling the truth so confidently because he knew that they wouldn’t believe it anyway.
“The ghost in the mountains?” Tamura asked in a whisper, his eyes wide as he knelt down beside Fushimi; he was still scared of the legend, Fushimi realised.
“That’s the one,” he said.
“Seriously, Fushimi?” asked Miyazaki. “You saw it? It gave you a scar? How?”
“Poked my head,” said Fushimi.
“Uh, what?” Miyazaki prodded him in the arm. “Are you telling the truth?”
“Of course I am!”
“Swear it!”
“I swear I’m telling the truth.”
“That’s so creepy!” said Tamura. “Like you’re marked for death.”
“Nah,” said Fushimi. “I’m special.”
“So was the ghost, like, hot?” asked Miyazaki. “Our age?”
“Sure, the ghost was pretty,” said Fushimi. “Ghosts don’t have an age.”
“Gross, Fushimi likes a ghost!”
“Yeah, well you like Kozuka, and that’s worse,” Fushimi countered, and they all laughed. Even though he’d sworn it was true, they didn’t believe him.
*
Uruha was waiting for him, shining like a beacon in the dark, the next time he went to the forest.
“I don’t think I’ll be here for much longer,” he said softly, crouching down, reaching to cup Fushimi’s cheek even though he couldn’t; he simply held his ghostly hand there, and Fushimi couldn’t feel a thing.
“The war?”
“Yes, little one.”
“Will you come back?”
“Probably not.” Uruha gave him a sad smile. “But thank you for being my friend. I hope that someday, we can meet again.”
“You don’t think we will?”
“No, Fushimi,” whispered Uruha. “I don’t think we will.”