Contents

Title Page

Front Matter

Imprint

Dedication

Preface

San Kyodai

Also Available

San Kyōdai

A Traditional Ghost Story

__________

Andrew S. Cioffi

Front Matter

San Kyōdai

Copyright © 2014 by Andrew S. Cioffi/Mokkou House Publishing

San Kyōdai is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and occurrences are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious way. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

Kindle Edition

Dedication

For Michio

Preface

San Kyōdai is the first in a series of short stories and folk tales to come out of the world of The Painted Shōgun. Read this as a ghost story that would be told to children of the Hayashi.

The Setsubun is a real festival held in Japan to mark the end of winter. It is celebrated by chasing away demons with thrown beans.

The winter moon was dying over the Hayashi. A new year beckoned, and Spring lay beyond the mountains, ready to rise up with the morning's vernal sun. But night was still upon Oshiro, in its darkest of hours. And the Morihito were about to celebrate the turning of the year.

"Father, tell us of the demons again," said Manzo, Shirou's third and strongest boy. Earlier that day was the Setsubun; one of the few Yoronojin festivals that followed them. A crackling fire kept them warm under the pine canopy. Shirou saved the cedar to burn for special occasions, and the pit that night was warmly scented. "Manzo!" said Shirou. "We cast those demons away! Besides... It's too scary. Don't you want your brothers to sleep?" But at least two of the three other boys begged as their brother Manzo begged. Shiro, the youngest, didn't much like ghost stories. He didn't like the way they scared him and he didn't like it when his brothers knew. Already his stomach started knotting and he felt the tingling behind his ears. The boy also knew that the demons didn't favor him, or so his brothers said. But the boys were all but chanting.

"Ok, ok. I will tell you of the great demon Tengu from ne-niwa. But don't say that I didn't warn you. The Setsubun was not always just a hopeful practice, you know. And the Tengu are not just protecting spirits... Not all of them. The Tengu are the spirits of once great warriors. Some warriors have evil intentions. And the old warlords that wanted to destroy the Hayashi became evil spirits that continue to haunt this place. Every year, we cast them away, but especially on the night after they Setsubun, they become angered." "That's tonight!" "That's right Jirou," said his father. "That's tonight..."

Shirou took a brief pause in his story to tend the burning logs. A snapping piece of tinder danced up a cloud of sparks. He took a drink and he carried on.

"There was one particular Tengu that came down on the Setsubun. I hope he doesn't come tonight... To him, it was a declaration of war that would not be unanswered. They call him Akai Yama. Akai Yama is said to be the spirit of a Shōgun. He's as tall as two men, stronger than a Dragon, and he's as angry as a tiger. You know it's Akai Yama because he carries his war club. You can hear him coming when he beats it against the trees. He preys on young warriors. Not many lived long enough to speak of him. Only a few bodies were ever found. Mostly in pieces. I shouldn't be telling you this..." Shirou took a moment to listen all around. And then he whispered "he might be listening."

That was the boys' favorite story, and he was getting to their favorite part. Shirou had four boys. Ichiro was the oldest, and of the four, he was the biggest and best swordsman. The Yoru were unparalleled warriors. Jirou was second, and so far, the keenest sumi painter. The Yoru were also renowned artisans. Manzo was third, and he was the strongest. To be Yoru, one must grow strong of both body and mind. And Shiro, the fourth son of a fourth son, took mostly after his mother. He was also the wisest and best student. Shiro's brothers didn't much care for school, but he knew that the truest Yoru were the wisest. Though he was bright, Shiro was behind in his martial training. Warrior boys of a warrior father didn't let him easily forget that.

"I don't care if he hears us, I'm not scared!" proclaimed Ichiro, puffing out his chest. "I'm not scared either. Come and face us, demon!" called Manzo. "Shh," cried their father. "It's late. People are sleeping. And we should all be sleeping. Early training tomorrow." Shirou made old man sounds that the boys mocked when he stood. They showed their respect, however, when he threatened with a glare.

"The Tengu eats the youngest one first, Shiro," said Ichiro on the walk back inside. "No, he eats the biggest one," said Manzo, snapping back at Ichiro. "You're both wrong," said Jirou. "Everyone knows that the Tengu eats father's least favorite." "Shiro!" called the three boys. "Enough!" said their father, in a stout voice. It was Jirou's words that roused him, but they were all three scolded. "The Tengu eats the brothers who don't act like it," he said. "Now get some sleep."

❖

Young Shiro laid awake after he heard his brothers snoring. Demon stories always scared him. He was so ashamed for his brothers to know; they were so brave. Even the swordsman and even the strongest heard things out there in the night, but they weren't scared like Shiro was. For Shiro, though, something scared him more that night. It felt like something was with him. The boy could feel the presence of the demon.

He couldn't hear much over his racing heart, but every owl call or bending branch jumped his spirit. His face flushed, but he convinced himself that they weren't demons. It wasn't easy that night, but somehow, he found sleep.

❖

Shiro started running. He didn't know what from, but his feet were taking him through the thicker trees towards the mountain trail. He couldn't feel his legs but they were moving him fast. Ahead, but not too far, was drumming, the glow of an encampment, and familiar voices. They were laughing. No. They were screaming. It was his brothers voices. He could hear pain. His legs pushed him hard but he couldn't climb any faster. The thump of someone falling from a tree slammed down behind the boy. He heard the ridges rubbing first, and a beastly breath, before the demon beat his war club on the tree. It shook his feet. Shiro was so afraid to look. His eyes were welled with tears, but he clenched his teeth and then slowly, he turned. Before he could see the sharpness in his eyes, the club came thundering for him with a growl.

The boy awoke with a start. He was sweating and he still felt the need to run. It felt like something was in the house with him. His eyes watered and his hair stood on end when he heard a floorboard creak down stairs. "Manzo..." he whispered in his meekest voice. The boys must have been asleep beyond snoring. The next creak sat him up. Shiro was breathing heavy and he cleared his throat in case the intruder was listening. "Manzo!" He spoke above a whisper that time, though he didn't raise his voice too loud. When he reached for Manzo's shoulder, it was gone.

Shiro was panicked. He wanted to wake his father. All he could see in his head was the demon dragging his brothers away. At first, he wasn't sure that he really heard it, but then a second, distant crack echoed through the trees outside. Tingling pins and needles spread over his face. The third shot echoed the loudest and it sent shivers down his arms. It may have even splintered the tree. 'The war club,' he thought. When it hit again, though, he heard a shout coming from outside. Then there was more than one voice shouting, and something louder and deeper. Shiro didn't have time to think; he grabbed his blade and he ran.

There wasn't anything near their house, but the noises were coming from the thicker trees. The moon had passed into clouds. One of the voices screamed for Shiro. Against his will and his gut, and against all fears from his dream, Shiro headed for them. He couldn't let the Tengu take his brothers. His father said that the demon would eat brothers not acting like it. Shiro knew that for his brothers, he was prepared to die doing his part. If they were right and the demon wanted the youngest first, he hoped to help the others get away.

Shiro's legs carried him beyond where his mind would have. That was the surge in spirit that the Yoru were trained to control. He ran right into the first clearing, where in his dreams was fire and drumming. He saw Jirou first, who had fallen. "Shiro help! The demon!" he screamed. Shiro was made aware of his surroundings. He drew his blade and dropped the saya. There was no fire and there was no drumming. "Turn around!!!" screamed a second voice. It was Manzo. Shiro whipped his head before his blade could follow and he started moving before he saw him.

The growling, burning face of the Tengu overpowered Shiro and his legs slid out from his turning top half. He was so scared. The demon advanced and drew up his war club as Shiro scrambled to gather his blade. He let out a growl that wrapped itself around the boy's name. Shiro's spirit was in control. The club came hurtling down in tracking slow-motion. There was enough time for Shiro to roll to the side. The club blasted just beside him, kicking up dirt and pine needles. He felt the blow. Whether the kanabō stuck or just had heft, Shiro was able to get to his feet. He couldn't believe the power of the demon or the size of his curled fangs. He couldn't stop to think or he would surely die. Shiro raised up his blade and made two cuts. The first flashed down and severed the war club and the second swiped for the midsection of the mighty demon. The Tengu jumped away, but it felt like the blade cut his belly. He drew his own blade and stepped to face the boy.

The boy brought around his blade and it clashed against the demon's. As soon as the thought occurred that he didn't stand a chance, it was over. Shiro was kicked back. His second strike was a swat taken out of desperation. The demon struck, slashing at Shiro's neck, slicing down into his chest, releasing a vicious spray. His blade hit the dirt when he heard the two boys scream "Ichiro!" It happened so fast. Shiro grabbed for his own shoulder. It felt warm and wet. He could hear it misting and gurgling. His face flushed and his guts went cold. It was hard to breathe when he fell to his knees. He tried to turn to see Ichiro, but he couldn't find him. Shiro slumped to the side, scared, fighting for air, knowing that he was almost gone. The two boys were by his side, but they were looking on the demon. Before his eyes shut, he watched Ichiro remove the Tengu mask and he saw the fear in his own brother's eyes to be the one who cut him down.

Part One: Ichiro

It felt shorter than his nightmare before he opened his eyes. He still couldn't breathe, but it didn't feel as though there was much need for air. The boy stood where he was dropped. When he brushed his back side and his chest, he could feel his form, but his brothers, who were like phantoms, were in pain and screaming over Shiro's lifeless body. He wasn't interested in their pain, not yet, so he wandered.

❖

Time passed very differently for spirits. When he returned home, Shiro's body had been rested and all were returned to training.

The boy's spirit went with Ichiro to train by sword. He didn't know how or why he followed and he had no feelings, just that there was something he was searching for; something he would find.

Ichiro was a brilliant swordsman. Watching him spar was watching an artist paint; a shite performing; a taiko-man drumming. He would be Sōke soon, and when he took up his blade, all eyes were upon him.

He sat quietly, alone, staring to his brother as he trained. Their speaking was only muffled, but the bokken crashing resounded. Their strikes were not so much sharply audible as they were raw like breaking bones. When Ichiro sliced tatami or sections of bamboo, though, he felt the steel pulse in his neck. In those moments, he tried to look away. Every time a shinai struck a student at the end of Ichiro's reach, he also looked away.

Several days, or weeks even, had passed and still he followed, until he found what he was seeking. It was on a day like any other when Ichiro was training with a bokken. On that day, they trained with blinders to attune their gifted hearing. The swarm of other boys didn't matter. But one other boy in particular was advancing; he had even taken one matchup with Ichiro already. Ichiro grew frustrated. He came in with a kick and a massive overhead chop. Everything around them came into sharp focus. The boys were no longer phantoms and time slowed to a near halt. Even blinded, the boy facing Ichiro parried his strike into the mats and chopped for his midsection. Ichiro jumped back and away instinctively, almost like he'd been there before. The spirit was to his feet, jaw open, and his eyes struck a fearsome focus onto his brother. He knew why he was there in that moment. Ichiro struck the boy across the shoulder, but he pulled his strike and he chopped with the spine and not the cutting edge. If his blade were live, it wouldn't have killed. That was a hard learned lesson for Ichiro and the one watching.

Everything erupted around the spirit into an explosion of vengeful hate. Every bit of pain he suffered to his body and mind hit him like a typhoon. The room went dark. He found himself standing where the boy struck by Ichiro stood. The room went quiet. For the first time and through his blinder, Ichiro saw the spirit of his youngest brother Shiro. The look on the spirit's face was like stone. Ichiro tried speaking words of regret, but the spirit only tilted his head and adjusted his gaze right through Ichiro. The bokken hit the floor before the spirit hunched his shoulders. With a second burst of hatred came the strike. He struck Ichiro on either side of his head with an open hand and all the strength of the demon Tengu. The strike was like thunder and an explosion of light with no heat and pain with no reprieve rang through Ichiro's core. The spirit screamed an unearthly scream until everything was silent. And then came the blood.

The spirit had no interest in his brother's pain, so again he wandered.

Part Two: Jirou

It wasn't clear how much, but the season change told him that more time passed tending to Ichiro than resting Shiro's body. He didn't feel the pain that should have brought him. He didn't feel anything other than what he was searching for. It haunted him. And having known what solace was found at the end of his previous search, he was growing eager.

His wanderings brought him back for Jirou. Like with Ichiro, he sat quiet and alone as his brother trained. Jirou's primary dojo was not a martial one. He trained at home at times, and at others he trained outdoors. Sometimes he trained at school, or in the thicker trees or clearings. Jirou was a brush and ink painter and he painted the things he would see. The spirit marveled at his ability and he fought hard to even find pleasure in his brother's work.

One thing for certain was that he could hear the brush in new ways. That much brought him a comfort he'd not known. He could focus on the swishing of the hairs across the texture of the page. The drip that fell back into the ink when he dunked echoed. When he tried his hardest, he could hear ink soaking into fibers. Whether that was his brother's hearing or what a spirit could do with it would remain a mystery. Soon, though, he started following Jirou to find that comfort. When they were together, the need to search for something otherwise compelling drifted away. Ichiro's gifted hearing and Jirou's brush worked in concert to sooth the spirit.

Jirou was also a gifted swordsman. His sword trainings didn't sooth in quite the same ways, but the spirit found interest when he combined them. Father always taught that the two were the same. Shiro enjoyed painting and Ichiro excelled with the sword, but Jirou was the first to connect them. Ichiro would have been unstoppable if only he took his studies more seriously.

Weeks passed; maybe more. The school room was no longer familiar. It was just another quiet place to sit and listen as Jirou made paintings. He didn't bother anyone, nor was he bothered. For the most part, he didn't hear beyond the brush strokes. At night when Jirou painted owls, he heard brush strokes and owls, the same when he painted frogs by the creek, or hawks hunting mice. Sometimes he would listen for the words that they were asked to paint. Sometimes those words were familiar to write and he would sing their sounds inside of his mind.

The one word in particular that day that he heard loudest and most clear was the Sensei's call for the boys to write 'family.' Of every brush stroke, he was able to hear Jirou's because they went against what the other boys wrote. His neck started throbbing and his interest was piqued. Jirou's brush cut three horizontal lines first; one below the other. That wasn't the right rhythm. In that moment he was suspended above the page that Jirou was inking. The spirit of the fourth son watched the living second spell out 'San Kyōdai.' Those were not the words that meant 'family' to the spirit. Jirou heard him read aloud "Three Brothers," with an airy and somber tone. The sound of his voice sent shivers. Jirou's choice of words didn't tell of the three brothers he had. It was more that three brothers were banded together like one. It meant that Shiro, or his memory, didn't belong.

And then he saw him. Like a phantom, the spirit of the youngest appeared when all others in the room grew dark. His face was a stone. Jirou attempted words of regret, but the spirit focused on the written ones. Every pain he endured and every pain that Ichiro endured came crashing down. The pain was tenfold what he felt facing Ichiro alone. He tried to block the screaming sounds but there was an explosion of vengeful hatred all around him. Jirou dropped the brush, splattering ink across the page. The spirit let out an unearthly scream as he moved to draw a phantom blade. Jirou was breathing heavy; tears filled his eyes. He couldn't move away and he couldn't scream. The spirit's hands struck like lightning and he drew across Jirou's face. The slash stitched through both of his eyes, cutting through the furrow between them, releasing two spraying streams. Everything went dark. The last image to fade from Jirou's severed eyes was his brother's spirit turning to wander. He knew in that moment what his brother saw and the pain the two of his brothers felt.

Part Three: Manzo

It was autumn when the hurting stopped. In the time of his wanderings, he met many spirits. When he met the demons, he was no longer afraid. But something of the fall in his home, and something else to search for brought him back.

He went first to Ichiro. The first son continued his study of the sword. His pain was different; it was far more interesting for the spirit. Ichiro was not the swordsman he once was, nor would he be again. Without his gifted hearing, he would never know true stealth. Beyond the pain he suffered, that was a fate like death to a mighty Yoru. A vengeful spirit had found what he was seeking in Ichiro.

He went next to Jirou, who's deep sorrow hadn't settled any. In time, he would learn pain like Ichiro; one that he himself endured; one that would separate him from the Yoru. Without his gifted vision, he would never know true invisibility. A vengeful spirit had also found what he was seeking in Jirou.

Manzo would have been next, but he wasn't compelling the spirit to search in those same ways. He followed because he had to. Those two were closer in age than the eldest two and the middle two. Though Manzo most often acted the warrior, and he was the strongest, his pain was sharpest that night Shiro was cut down.

Weeks went by and he started seeing Manzo's training through a softer set of eyes. It was awe that watched. Though his brush and bokken were the best now, they weren't what his brothers had, and they weren't what interested the spirit. On the mat, though, he wasn't touched. His yorushin-jutsu was strong. And it wasn't only his strength. With his technique he painted vibrant, big circles, and he led the pack. He was even more accomplished at randori. His spirit was a wild one.

Winter brought with it the cold. It was almost a year. Talk of the Setsubun rekindled interest in searching to take something from Manzo. When the spirit grew frustrated, he paced around the mat; when he was playful, he showed his prints in the snow. Manzo didn't let the spirit's presence distract from his training, nor did the spirit let the talk of the Setsubun threaten. Together they were truly brave. But Manzo knew better than to tell his brothers.

The day came sooner than expected. He never understood the higari iwashi before, but the smell of the sardine heads and holly was far too repulsive to his new nose to wonder any further. Sounds of Setsubun celebrations and flinging beans all around Oshiro had him curious, but the stench kept him away. Funny, it never bothered him as a boy.

He expected that his own house would have angered him most. It was something that his father said... They weren't throwing beans and they hung no fish-heads or holly. They were, however, praying over the Tengu mask. The very sight of that mask with Jirou's gifted eyes brought back the screaming pain and searing betrayal. Even if they were praying for Shiro's spirit to be well, Ichiro and Jirou licked their own wounds. What welled inside the spirit twice before was welling one final time. His anger was tenfold again. The screaming inside of his mind shook the floor and the floor started rattling the mask. Collectively, there was fear. Ichiro saw the mask move, Jirou felt the floor. Their hearts raced and they reached for weapons. Shirou comforted their mother who screamed. Manzo was the calmest, even though he knew he was next. The spirit lit up and they all saw him, except Jirou, but somehow he knew what was there. He slowed time and lifted the mask, focusing his pain and shattering it without a touch. There was an eerie combination of terror and understanding. They grasped for him while he faded, wondering whether he left them or not. He knew there was fear, but they were restrained. And he wasn't sure what came next so he waited, watching.

The quiet came, and it was crushing, but momentary. A piercing, distant, low clacking thud echoed of war off in the trees. He was stupid to have ever thought his brother's bokken was Akai Yama's war club. There was no mistaking his mighty timbre. Another strike came closer and it felled branches. There was a different colored fear in the room, especially for a family that didn't throw beans. Their father picked up his blade and a pouch of them. He wasn't afraid, but he had to pry away his wife before he told his boys to follow. He wouldn't undo what they had done by himself.

The spirit moved fast to make his plea with Akai Yama before father and Manzo were out. The other two had their own reasons for staying behind...

There was no preparing a man to see a demon of Akai Yama's proportions. Even in the darkness, his red was nearly burning bright. He pushed aside trees and the club he carried made them look small. No time was wasted with a first and heaving attack. His movements were lightning and Shirou was thrown back nearly killed. Manzo stood his ground and the giant Tengu stopped to let himself be seen. He may even have been speaking, but Manzo would have never distinguished it from the heated rumblings of something un-killable. The demon Tengu raised up his club and slammed it down, uprooting trees and moving houses. No one else in the whole village would stand him down; no man; no Yoru; no one except for Manzo. He would surely be killed.

As the club struck down, everything slowed one final time and Shiro's spirit lit right in its path. There he was, a spirit sympathizing with the living, though he was put there by the very same. But if Akai Yama was a Shōgun, he had his chance, and he would have others. And the Yoru don't take kindly to Shōgun. His strikes would be hopeless against the demon Tengu, but he remembered his father's words. 'The Tengu eats the brothers who don't act like it.'

The Tengu tried commanding the spirit to move, still following through with his strike. Akai Yama cut down through the spirit, but before he was struck, he pushed back, colliding with Manzo and driving him out of the way. His great hammer fell on emptiness, sending a shock wave through Oshiro.

Manzo rose up alone with all of the power, sense, and foresight of a full and battle-hardened Yoru. The spirit was gone, but there was a changed presence. He reached and he drew his blade instinctually, cutting sight unseen, but he cut through nothing. There was no demon Tengu, only his smoldering hole in the ground. Akai Yama may well have found his foe in Manzo had he remained.

From behind, Manzo was pelted with a cloud of beans. He turned to find his father laying, laughing, in pain, but ready to take on the new year. Come morning, he would begin to teach Manzo to harness the power of the San Kyōdai.

- OWARI -

Also Available By Andrew S. Cioffi

The Painted Shogun – Book I
Dragon Festival, Harvest Fire (2013)

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