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Hermits, ageless adherence to the bhāvanā or not, still had to sleep.
Seiga Kaku was very much an early morning – well, she wasn’t exactly a person, depending on who you asked, but that’s nothing but academic pedantics when you’re in Gensokyo. In fact, she was such an early morning hermit, that she sometimes went to bed as early as five in the morning.
This information was of vital importance to Mononobe no Futo and Soga no Tojiko, because if they wanted to do anything in and around the Hall of Dreams’ Great Mausoleum surreptitiously, without any loopy, blue-haired interruptions, they had few precious hours to do so on any given day.
Especially if those surreptitious actions involved the Loyal Undead, Yoshika Miyako.
It was well known among the Mausoleum dwellers that poetry was one of the few things that stuck in the jiang shi’s otherwise moldering brain without prodigious use of ofuda and a particularly long knife. It went unspoken that it must have been a huge part of her previous life. When no one was around and her ofuda began to blur from exposure to the elements and what remained of her mind reached an utterly immaculate stupor, she would rattle off poetry to the empty cemetery, with a vacant timbre and dingy pupils unseeing. The complete lack of any emotional tonality only served to make the solitary recitals even more doleful.
Seiga found it cute, and frequently supplied her darling Yoshika with fresh poems, most of them original creations from the hand of the Wicked Hermit herself.
Seiga had said numerous times not to worry about the content of the newest poem she wrote for Yoshika. Yes, it is in Chinese; yes, you can’t understand it; yes, I recognize it could say anything, but it doesn’t. Alright? Don’t worry about it. Hmm? What does it say? Don’t worry about it. There’s nothing to worry about, okay?
As any sensible people would be when told not to worry by Seiga Kaku, Futo and Tojiko were very worried indeed.
-----
Futo raised an arm in an attempt to block the morning sun. “Ho, good Yoshika! How does the morrow find you?”
It wasn’t often either Futo or Tojiko stepped out into the sunlight, and winced as they emerged, rapidly blinked away the burning behind their eyelids. The Mausoleum was quite well-lived and notably absent of any and all youkai and Buddhists, but today they had little choice.
Yoshika had been standing guard at her usual space outside the Mausoleum gate, dutifully staring at absolutely nothing, now her brow creased in the herculean endeavor that was thought; her eyes, the dusty apertures, struggled to focus on the two figures.
“Errgh…” she moaned.
“We wish to speak with you–” Tojiko began, only to have Yoshika’s brain catch up with the present.
“Ah! Hallo, Lady Mononobe! Lady Soga!” She smiled a stony smile; she’d been eating the rocks again. “My marrow feels good today. Barely any leaks at all. Thank you for asking!”
Tojiko exhaled slowly.
“We wish to speak with you,” she said, “about the meaning behind Seiga’s most recent poem. Specifically, if there is any reference to myself and Futo contained within.”
“Hrhm?” groaned Yoshika anticipatorily.
“And since we cannot understand the Chinese it is written in,” Tojiko continued, “we were hoping you could provide its meaning in a language we can.”
Yoshika did so happily.
And from anyone that had all their grey matter, it would’ve been impudence. Tojiko attempted a smile.
“Yoshika,” she said.
“Urrg?”
“I could not help but notice that you did, in fact, just recite the poem.”
“Aurg!”
“Which is in Chinese.”
“Mrggha!”
“When I asked a definition in a language I know.”
“Yesssshh! That’s what it’s definitioning, Lady Soga.”
“So that t’was Chinese t’was it?” Futo sniffed. “I thought it t’was the modern our once noble language had become.” She went on in scathing tones, “Would the populace truly perish to speak with more clarity?”
Tojiko ignored Futo flawlessly, it was an activity she had substantial practice in.
Tojiko had heard of patience. She put as much of what she thought it sounded like into her voice as she said, “Yoshika, do you know Chinese?”
“Nope!”
“What? What of the lexemes so freshly spoken only moments previous with nary a whit of hesitation?” said Futo. “Really, Yoshika, humility doth not becomes thee.”
“Oh, good.” said Yoshika, relieved. “Niang-Niang would kill me if become anything other than me. And after I spent so long memorizing the words she told me to memorize!”
“But not their translation, I suspect,” sighed Tojiko. “Well, Yoshika, if you don’t know the language, do you know of anyone who does?”
“Niang-Niang does!”
“Anyone else?”
Within the disintegrated hall that was Yoshika’s memory, a plume of dust went up as a face dislodged itself.
“Oh! Oh! The Crown Prince will know. The Crown Prince knows everything.”
“Oh sweet Yoshika. The Crown Prince’s time is far too valuable to waste on this contrivance,” said Futo.
“Okay, Lady Mononobe. ‘m sorry. I’ll do my best to remember that your time is cheap in the future!”
“As thou should!” said Futo, then, “Pray, tarry–”
“What about that mansion the Crown Prince receives all those party invites from?” said Tojiko. “The one with the sprawling library. They have to have books on Chinese.”
“The library’s not open to the public, Lady Soga. Niang-Niang told me.”
“And how did Seiga appear when she told you? Was she smirking and holding a book, perchance?”
“We art not the ‘public.’”
“Niang-Niang looked very angry. And very full of knives.”
“Should’ve known,” murmured Tojiko. “Seiga doesn’t use sarcasm when she speaks to her pet.”
“And so we find ourselves returned to the premier four-walled shape,” said a despondent Futo.
“An immense dilemma, to say the least,” agreed Tojiko.
“Eeergrgrh…” groaned Yoshika in acquiesce.
“An impasse of colossal proportions,” said Futo.
“An exigency worthy of our intellect,” said Tojiko.
“A right pickle, and make no mistake,” said Mamizou Futatsuiwa.
The Taoists leapt several terrified feet.
“What-? How-? Where did-?” Tojiko sputtered.
Mamizou waved airily.
“Buddhist invasion!” shrieked Futo, who always found the presence of mind to hate Buddhism. “Yoshika! Eradicate this intruding lout!”
“Intruding…? Intruding…? Intruding…?” Yoshika mumbled, her dull eyes slowly gaining luster until she seized to attention. “Intruder!”
Rarely had an amble so full of death been witnessed as Yoshika ambled towards Mamizou, who’s ear flicked and said, “Come now. A bake-danuki can’t even get a word in before you start tryin’ to kill her?”
“This is no place for the likes of you to enter!”
Mamizou shrugged, as a youkai shrugged when questioning just what, exactly, the world was coming to.
“If you insist.”
There was the sound of magic ramming into a sack of rotten meat, and Yoshika was tumbling across the cemetery cobbles. She came to a rest on her side, arms in front of her, legs kicking in a walking motion, managing only to revolve her in a circle slowly–
“This is no place for the likes of you to enter!”
-not that she seemed particularly cognizant of this turn of events.
Mamizou readjusted her glasses.
“Apologies, dearie, but not even the cute ones get to munch on my tail. Now then. Believe it or not, I ain’t actually here to–”
“I see thee art capable enough of vanquishing the lame corpse, devilish wanton!” Futo stepped forward, fire crackling between her fingers. Beside her, Tojiko’s lightning surged. “But thou shalt discover that we art not brought to our knees so–”
Futo awoke to a deluge of a headache and Mamizou’s jauntily beaming smile standing over her.
“For the record, I recommend you stick to spell cards in the future, hun. You may find yourself having fewer unconscious episodes,”said Mamizou, extending a hand downward.
Futo appeared not to see it, and hauled herself up.
“Thine concern for mine well-being is marked,” she said, glaring unsteadily. “Do not lord thy victory of mineself so soon. Next time thou shalt see who bears the element of surprise. Nor will the sun be in mine eyes. Additionally, the morn is still young; I has’t nary an opportunity to awaken properly.”
Still beaming, Mamizou retracted her hand.
A glance around yielded the sight of Tojiko peeling herself off of a now ruined pile of gravestones. And there was Yoshika, as she was the last time Futo saw her and still chanting, “This is no place for the likes of you to enter!”
“Yoshika!” Futo’s head rung at her shout, but she avoided wincing just in time. The noble image of the Mononobe had to be maintained, in defeat more than ever. She steadied herself and started over: “Yoshika Miyako. Heareth and obey the edict of Mononobe no Futo, affiliate of thy master,” she added, for the nonzero odds Yoshika forgot who she was. “Enact mine royal edict, and shut thine face.”
Mamizou laughed, smacked Futo on the back jovially, causing another tumbling to wrack her skull, and said, “Give the poor girl a rest. You know how difficult articulation is for her.” Then lifted her sake jug to her lips.
“What sort of Buddhist are you that starts drinking at six in the morning?” said Tojiko, drifting over. She nursed a throbbing cranium of her own.
The jug came loose. Mamizou waggled a finger.
“Excuse me, but I believe you will find it to be a technical impossibility to start drinking if one never stops.” She scratched an ear. “And I don’t really follow the Dharma. The only reason I came to Myouren in the first place was to clean your collective clocks if you lot tried anything dangerous. So, whatever kind of Buddhist that is, I guess.”
“Clean our clocks? For what purpose?” said Tojiko. “We don’t carry timepieces.”
“Even if we did, propositioning to unsully them is not proper deterrent in the slightest!” Futo shook her head smugly. “Soft-minded sutra spouter.”
Mamizou arched an eyebrow at them with genial incredulity.
“Ri-ight. How silly of me,” she said; then smacked her temple. “But where are my manners? Haven’t been introduced and already making a proper fool of myself.” She nodded into curtsy. “Futatsuiwa from Sado, Bake-Danuki of Ten Transformations, at your service.” She winked. “But my friends call me Mamizou.”
Tojiko, in what was quite possibly a polite tone for her, said, “And you may call us Ladies Soga and Mononobe, Futatsuiwa from Sado.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure,” said Mamizou, sounding bright. “Now that I know what I’m talking to, pardon me for a second, miladies.” She hefted the jug again, but this time the chugging had a certain drowning quality that Captain Murasa would be envious of.
Futo watched from atop her highborn and righteous nose as the bake-danuki’s throat bobbed.
“Wherefore doth thee so prodigiously consume alcohol? It doest naught but dull the wits.”
There was a scraping intake of air and a shake of the head before Mamizou responded: “Yep. It most definitely does. I make it a point to meet my opponents on an equal level.”
“Art thou funning us?” snapped Futo.
“A bake-danuki? Having fun? At others’ expense? You clearly know nothing about us, milady.” Mamizou was a study of the ingenuous raccoon dog. “I ain’t here to speak the epitome of serious business, in case you’re wonderin’. I overheard that you were having some issues with Chinese, and thought I might offer my assistance. Y’know. Be a good neighbor. Namaste, and all that, and all that.”
“You know Chinese?” said Tojiko.
“‘course. Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, Korean, Russian, Mongol, Arabic, Venusian, Polish, English, Latin, Swahili, German, Indonesian, Spanish, Nue, French. Been everywhere, me. One of the perks of living on the outside for so long.”
“Those monsters has’t their own language?”
“What? The French? Oh sure. Not the best language; can’t count properly for the life itself, but dependable, puts the hours in, that sort of thing. Very frank language.”
“I was referring to the Nue, Futatsuiwa from Sado,” glowered Futo.
“Ah. Sorry. I get those two mixed up a lot. What else is new, eh? Ha, ha!”
She glanced between the staring Taoists.
“Ha?”
“The Crown Prince has a new cape,” offered Tojiko uncertainly.
Mamizou pushed her glasses up viciously. It had taken her literal ages to come up with that one.
“Absolutely the Nue have their own language,” she said. “Nue’s actually one of my favorite languages. Highly complex; took me decades to get it down pat, and I still make mistakes. They have over four hundred words for ‘that joyous feeling you get from watching someone else’s misery’. Also highly dependent on context and vocal timbre. The word ‘human,’ for example, is only one inflection away from the word ‘meal’–”
“I am so horrendously loath to inform thee,” cut in Futo’s voice, gluttonous with glee, “that we has’t no coin for thy repugnant bowl, Buddhist rascal.” She waved her hand. “Aroint at thy soonest convenience.”
Mamizou’s tail flicked. “You think I want money?” she said. “Lady Mononobe, you must know a bowl is most useful when it is empty! Why, the only thing I require from any service I perform is the knowledge that I did what I could to make someone’s day that much brighter. I have never taken any more than what’s owed to me. Why, to think I would use my kindness to take advantage of anyone! You wound me greatly.” She smiled warmly. “Plus, I’m bored out my stripy keister and this is something to do. Please. The only one awake at this hour is Byakuren and I can’t get a rise out of her for jack.”
The Taoists met each other’s eyes. They turned their backs to Mamizou and put their heads together.
“I say we let her,” whispered Tojiko.
“Has’t thou misplaced thy small glass orbs? She is a Buddhist! And a youkai!” Futo added, as if being a Buddhist wasn’t enough a condemnation of one’s morality. “All she spits are prevarications of the highest magnitude!” she sneered, performing the grand leaps of logic only she had the mental acumen for.
“I see it like this: what do you trust least: A Buddhist youkai, or Seiga saying, ‘Trust me’?”
There was a silence, broken only by the sound of Yoshika, still on her side, snapping listlessly at the stones below her.
As one Taoist, Tojiko and Futo spun around briskly.
“Thy has’t our leave to begin the translation, Futatsuiwa from Sado.”
Mamizou’s tail swished again, now blithe, and flashed a smile. “Marvelous! Or, as the kids these days say, ‘far out.’ Heh. What will they think of next?”
To Tojiko’s surprise, she then strolled right up to Yoshika, bent down and cheerily said, “Good morning, Yoshika. How are you today?”
Surely she should have a disguise on? thought Tojiko.
Reddened eyes swiveled upwards.
Yoshika had been specifically trained on all of the Buddhists’ faces and to maul them on sight should they come close to the Mausoleum gates.
Razor-edged teeth, sharp enough to tear apart spirits, grinded as the decayed gears of the jiang shi’s brain began to turn.
Come to think of it, tanuki could do disguises, right? Or was that kitsune? All youkai looked the same to Tojiko.
Yoshika’s lips pulled back in what might be joy.
“I’m dead today, Ms. Futatsuiwa!”
Of course. How did Tojiko forget? Yoshika had been specifically trained on all of the Buddhists’ faces and to maul them on sight should they come close to the Mausoleum gates.
Mamizou smirked. She couldn’t help it; this was too easy. “Would you say you’re dead tired?”
Yoshika’s face screwed in on itself under the enormous weight of the question.
“Ehhr…?”
“‘Dead’ is a jiang shi’s natural state.” This was knowledgeably supplied by Futo. “They art resurrected corpses; they cannot feeleth fatigue.”
“You don’t say,” said Mamizou perfunctorily, then to Yoshika, “Come on, let’s have you up. The guard of the Hall of Great Dreams needs to look lively.” She hoisted Yoshika’s rigid body upright with a grunt.
“Oof. You’re getting heavy, dear. This cemetery lifestyle just isn’t good for your health.”
“Urrrrhhg…?”
“I believe the word is actually ‘sedentary,’ Futatsuiwa from Sado,” said Tojiko helpfully.
“Listen to those fuddy duddies, Yoshika. They’re bigger stiffs than you are.”
“Uuuhhhgggghr…?”
“Exactly. Now, this poem your master–”
“Master…?”
“Seiga Niang-Niang, dear. You remember the poem she taught you?”
“…yessss.”
“Could you tell it to me, please?”
Yoshika began the recitation…
…
…and finished it.
Mamizou was cleaning her glasses on her shirt. Tears had made them foggy.
“Beautiful, Yoshika. No other word for it. Give my regards to Seiga Niang-Niang. And the dear who read it deserves some praise, surely.”
“Who’s Shirley, Ms. Futatsuiwa?”
Mamizou patted her on the head, said, “You did a great job today, Yoshika,” and watched as she glowed so brightly she bordered on phosphorescence. It’s a good job jiang shis didn’t have tails to wag. That level of adorable might have dropped Mamizou on the spot. Compliments were a small gesture to the dead, but they didn’t have much else they could use.
The Taoists peered at each other apprehensively. The fear that Seiga may have done something magnanimous was incipient.
“So. How many slights to our personage has’t the Wicked Hermit contained in her verse?” said Futo as Mamizou approached.
“Very little. Zero, as a matter of fact.” Mamizou looked almost too serene. “All it is is a story of Laozi overcoming a great personal tribulation.”
“So then why did Seiga feel the need to write it Chinese and insist that there is nothing wrong with it?” said Tojiko.
“One: it has tons of word play and allegories that don’t work in any other language. Two: no idea. You two are obviously extremely worldly individuals who can take a simile or seven at face value.”
“And what art the actual words used?”
“Lots of Chinese ones.”
“Doth thee mistake me for a fool?”
“Who could mistake that, Lady Mononobe?”
Tojiko coughed loudly. The ghost wore the apologetic expression most naturally adopt after a certain length of time in Futo’s presence.
“I think what Futo means is, what are the words in Japanese?”
Mamizou blinked. “You want me to translate all of it? As in, word for word? Okay. Sure. I can if you want…”
“What’s the problem? You know all the words, right? Just put them in the proper language.”
“Figures of speech don’t–” Mamizou stopped. This wasn’t the lot you should go around trying to describe the changes across boundaries to.
“Really, you’re getting the second hand experience,” she tried. “And it’ll take a long while. Besides, the mystique of wonder is sometimes more romantic than the knowledge of reality. That’s the Nue way. Don’t ya like new things?”
“Were thou not the one who decried her boredom?” said Futo pontifically.
“I guess I did,” sighed Mamizou. “So I think the word choice at the start would go something like–”
-----
The passage of time, famously, goes unobserved in Gensokyo. Of the three and a half bodies gathered in the cemetery that morning, the only one who noticed their shadow slide with the movement of the sun was Yoshika, as she wondered the best way to go about eating hers. Since this was Yoshika having the thought, it did not last too long regardless.
“-and there you have it,” finished Mamizou. “Quite the powerful and relatable message in the end, ain’t it? Can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been the same situation myself and just gave up.”
Futo, who was standing with a waxen stiffness that made Yoshika look like master contortionist, said, “I bear the notion that thee has’t not spun falsehoods.”
“You think I could come up with anything that profound?” Mamizou frowned. There wasn’t a wet eye to be seen on the Taoists. How very odd.
“I did get everything right, didn’t I?” she said, mostly to herself. She was certain she had everything translated in order...
“Do not concern yourself further, Futatsuiwa from Sado,” said Tojiko. Sparks zig-zagged up and down her arm. “We must take our leave of you now. A cordial chat with our compatriot regarding proper conduct and public image is called for. Do you not agree, Futo?”
There was a fiery blast, and the only thing left of the addressed shikaisen was a trail of blazing bootprints soldering the cobbles leading to the Mausoleum entrance.
“Bit of hot head, ain’t she?” said Mamizou, solely on autopilot. Admittedly, the old Middle Chinese muscles ain’t what they used to be, but let’s be civil here; it’s been a dog’s age since the Sui were knocking about.
“You’d be shocked,” said Tojiko. “Thank you for your time, Futatsuiwa from Sado. Consider yourself dismissed.”
One slam of thunder and a ringing electric crackle, and Tojiko was gone as well, leaving Mamizou scratching the back of her head and turning her mind over and shaking it in an effort to find what when wrong.
That search coming up blank, it dawned on her that maybe her delivery was off. Maybe it had to be said in a gargling monotone in order to get the best effect. Yeah, that had to be it.
“Yoshika, dear,” she called, abstractedly, “could you please remind me how those stanzas where Laozi gets drunk and spends four hours pushing on a ‘pull’ door go again?”