The Moonlit Corridor: Specter In Blue

The somber quiet of the nocturnal forest was suddenly broken by the shrill, piercing scream of a young girl. The frightened, heart-wrenching sound brought Ahn Sung Ji back to the moment, temporarily diverting his attention from the ground at his feet, where he had been looking for signs or tracks of the men he was pursuing. Rising quickly, he mounted his black Arabian horse and altering his present course set out in the direction of the plaintive cry... "Seems as if it came from the precipice..." he muttered as the horse, impatient for the chase, reared up on its hind legs, neighed loudly and bounded forward with the speed and agility of a great, sleek cat. A quarter of a mile ahead the dying echo of the horrific scream was followed by the crashing sounds of a trio of burly men cascading headlong through the woodland brush. As they approached a steep slope north of the cliff-side, one of the three fugitives tripped over the exposed twisted roots of an immense tree and fell violently forward, slamming into the back of the bulky man in front of him. Both lost balance and, rolling head over heels down the embankment, ended up sprawled like discarded rag dolls on the damp grass of the forest floor. The lead man, Miyamoto, looked back abruptly and began cursing. Pausing momentarily, he haphazardly scrambled back down the sloping walls of the gorge, hurrying toward his clumsy companions."Idiots!" he hissed impatiently through clenched teeth. "Get up! Keep moving! You've heard that cursed horse of his. He'll be at our backs in no time!"Both men stood, one of them unsteadily, and quickly followed their bearded leader into the darkness, up the opposite side of the ravine and once more into the dubious shelter of the trees. A myriad of stars winked indifferently above in the blackness of the night sky, while the solitary luminescence of a crescent moon guided the trio's reckless steps."The 'Left Hand of God'..." moaned one of the two who had fallen. "That mercenary is relentless, insane...a maniac...""He's earned that name...never lost a contest...survived every battle," declared the one who had knocked him down, just before he stumbled over a large stone."Can't you watch where you're stepping?" questioned his companion.Struggling to regain his balance, the other complained... "I can't see a thing in this darkness.""Quiet!" snapped Miyamoto. "Shut your mouth! That Korean has the ears of a lynx and the eyes of a hawk. He won't have any trouble finding us in this dark, especially if you two keep yapping. Just keep your tongues still and your feet moving!""If not for that girl," retorted the complainer... "it's your fault we stopped back there. Wasting time..."Before he could finish the sentence Miyamoto turned and delievered a well-placed punch to the man's mid-section."I told you to shut your mouth!" he snapped as the man dropped to his knees. "You were just as primed and ready as I."Breathing laboriously, the portly outlaw who had lost his balance near the ravine complained; "I can't take another step...must rest!""You'll be resting forever in the grave if that swordsman catches up with you," warned Miyamoto as he grabbed an arm of the man he had struck. Still gasping for breath as he was pulled to his feet, all the while glaring contemptuously at his leader, he managed to ask... "Why don't we confront him?""Better to confront a hungry tiger," said Miyamoto. "Just keep your mouths shut and keep your legs moving like I commanded!"Begrudgingly they followed their impatient bandit captain, all the while murmuring curses imperceptibly beneath bated breath.Just moments behind the three fugitives, a relentless and determined Sung Ji proceeded with intense caution, listening to every sound detectable amid the chirping of the crickets. The drawn, exposed blade of the razor-sharp sword he carried in his left hand glistened in the velvet darkness, subtly reflecting the dim lunar light.His present resolve to overtake his evasive prey was fueled by the unknown girl's mournful scream, and the grim discovery earlier of the body of a man the trio had slain in the forest. 'I should have cornered them this afternoon in Tsukimi...' he thought regretfully. 'If I had confronted them there in the village that man would still be alive...and the girl... Those animals seem to be leaving a trail of death in their wake...' Even as he contemplated what he should have done, he knew one reason for allowing them to escape his sword in Tsukimi was to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Miyamoto and his men were renowned for taking hostages if cornered. Another reason; he wanted to instill in them the same fear and helplessness their victims experienced before their deaths. But, Sung Ji reasoned, there was a selfish motive upon which he based his decision to allow them to escape him in Tsukimi; the swordsman enjoyed the thrill of the chase. So he blamed himself for the death of the man whose body he discovered beneath the branches of an ancient, twin-trunk tree...and then there was the girl's anguished cry. As yet he had no idea what caused her to scream, who in fact she was, or whether she was alive or dead. Perhaps she may be a captive of those killers. He would know in due time, he told himself, the moment he caught up with Miyamoto.In the distance, the echoing sound of rolling thunder heralded the coming of a spring storm. Looking skyward, the samurai saw a heavy cloudbank on the horizon, revealed with a flash of lightning, its crooked tentacles spreading across the heavens. Dense black clouds soon billowed above, wind-blown and drifting across the night sky like a dark ebon canopy, hiding the stars and slowly blanketing the sparse light of the moon. Fireflies disappeared into the darkness and heavy shadows of the trees as the next blast of thunder shook the ground, sending vibrations up the horses's body and along Sung Ji's spine. 'Even Heaven vents it's discontent', he surmised as he steadied the Arabian. Abruptly, almost before he managed to finish that thought, Sung Ji ceased his advance. The thunder echoed anew, diminished, and the sky was silent. Motionless now, the samurai was aware of the sudden stillness that had fallen over the forest, with the exception of the intermittent thunder. 'The quiet before the storm', he reasoned. It was eerie. The air had become still, and the trees; there was no wind to stir the leaves. Even the night crawleres and insects had become dormant. In that sudden quietude his acute sense of hearing detected the hushed whispers of frightened men in the shadows of the rocks and trees just ahead. 'They've stopped fleeing', he told himself, 'now they want to oppose me. Are they that eager to die?' he wondered as he noisely slid from the saddle. Once his feet touched the ground he tapped the horse's left flank with the side of his drawn blade, prompting the animal to move slowly forward in the direction of the hidden men. The silence was broken abruptly when the sky thundered again, much louder this time as the storm rapidly approached. In the seconds that followed the only audible sound was the muffled trotting of the Arabian's hoofs. "Chung, chung ee (Slowly)..." whispered Sung Ji as the horse disappeared along the trail and into the dark.Meanwhile, waiting in ambush beside the forest path they had chosen, the agitated fugitives were quickly losing patience and bravado. "Easy does it," whispered one of the three to his portly partner. "He's coming this way.""How have we come to this," whined the other, his voice quivering with fear.The first one to have spoken glared at his companion; "Quiet! He'll hear that babbling tongue of yours."The culprits, their weapons drawn and ready, had chosen as their hiding place the rocks on one side of the narrow passageway through the trees. Their bearded leader, with sword in hand, strategically crouched behind the thick brush on the opposite side of the path. He surmised that if he had to run, he could perhaps lose himself in the trees, while his men would have their escape path blocked by large boulders and rocks amid the thick underbrush and larger trees.Within moments of having been sent on its way, the horse emerged from the deeper shadows, moving slowly along the path. Although percieved, the animal was still wrapped in darkness, nigh invisible to the armed assailants. As it passed within a few feet of the hidden pair behind and atop the rocks the lighter and morst agile of the two leaped from hiding and launched himself forward, intending to knock Sung Ji from the horse's back. Instead, he found himself grabbing empty air as he slid across the vacant saddle, landing with a dull thud aground on the opposide side of the startled animal. The horse reared up and bolted forward as the second man leaped from hiding, shocked to find his partner in crime sprawled face down and stunned from the fall. A sudden blast of thunder sounded, followed by an intensely bright flash of lightning revealing Sung Ji's silhouette in the center of the path three spear's length from his would-be killers. In an instant the samurai closed the distance, his blade cutting a deadly arc in the air, dropping the portly, standing man. A second motion of his sword cut short the startled cry of the other who managed to half rise and half scream before he fell lifeless beside his companion. In the next moment intense winds slammed into the forest as the high dark clouds above opened, pouring torrential rain on the night scene, hiding the sound of Miyamoto's frenzied retreat. The mercenary stood motionless in the downpour, contemplating the pros and cons of pursuing the third man, who, he was certain, was alone. 'These three had no female captive', he surmised. If he imagined otherwise he would continue the pursuit. Reluctantly he decided to wait for another time, preferring to retrace his steps and solve the mystery of the scream he heard earlier. "Heaven's will be done," murmured Sung Ji as he flicked the blood from his blade and resheathed the sword. Swearing an oath, he said aloud to the storm and the forest... "Run to earth's end if you wish, Miyamoto. There is neither time enough, nor world enough for your deeds to go unpunished, or for you to escape my sword of Justice!"

CHAPTER 1
Far above her, in the great expanse of blue sky, the sun shone brightly. That was the first conscious thought she was aware of. The sun was warm, embracing...but where was she? That was the next thought that drifted into her mind, settleing like a wind blown leaf on the calm surface of a mountain lake. Looking skyward, she gleefully clapped her hands like a child when she saw the 'morning moon', still visible in the sky; she loved day skies like that, when both of heaven's lights shared the same blue space. Momentarily she became aware of her bare feet. The rough stones and driftwood upon which she found herself standing were at the base of the cliff close to her father's house. The rock and wood's jagged edges against the soles of her feet; that was the next thing she became conscious of. Not that it was painful. 'How curious', she thought. There was no pain; only awareness. 'Awareness'...it was good she told herself. But how did she get here, beneath the precipice? And the sun above her...wasn't it just nightfall? She searched her mind, tried to remember but could not. Although the sun above shone bright and clear her mind was shrouded in mists...in a dense fog of forgetfulness. Where were her shoes? And her dress was torn...how did that happen? The dress...it was something she never wore outside. 'It was for sleeping only', she told herself. At that moment she became aware of the dress being wet; not soaking wet, but damp, as if she had been in the rain...or the pool at the foot of the falls? 'How is it', she wondered, that she was dressed this way...and her clothing wet? How did she come to be here? Had she been sleepwalking? She heard of such things, but couldn't recall where or when. She only knew that at some time, somewhere, she had heard about people walking in their sleep. Oddly enough, it didn't really matter to her. 'I should return to the house', she told herself. 'Father will be home soon.' With that new thought in mind she set out for home, suddenly carefree an humming an old Japanese 'ai no san ka' (song of love) her father had taught her; "It was your mother's favorite", he said.She nonchalantly walked pass the amassed driftwood, along the river's edge and the standstill pool fed by the small river atop the cliff. The cascading falls seemed louder than usual, and the river alongside which she walked was swollen, moving a bit more swiftly, as if it had rained recently. There was something else that appeared odd; the ground beneath her feet was soft and damp; more so than usual, and much more than just damp she reasoned. It was as if there had been a heavy rain, perhaps in the last few hours. Another thought entered her mind: wasn't it just last night? There had been dark clouds in the distance when she was returning home, she remembered, and the fresh smell of rain was in the air. She couldn't recall if it rained or not, but her dress was wet...as though she had been caught in the rain...the thought occured to her once more. 'Last night...' she contemplated. 'It was...'Her disjointed thoughts were interrupted suddenly as a vagrant breeze gently caressed her skin, ruffled the silk of her dress and stirred the trees. She paused, tried to rally her memories, and then apathetically shrugged her slim shoulders. Something in her subconscious told her it really didn't matter; the rain last night, the sun and the moon above or intermittent breezes. She was on her way home, and standing still in the middle of the day wasn't going to get her there. Proud of herself for reaching such a wise conclusion she walked happily on, humming her mother's favorite 'ai no san ka', eventually reaching the steep trail that led up the mountain, into the forest and to her father's house. She had climbed less than a hunyard yards when she heard the voice of a man yelling. Looking back in the direction she had come she saw a group of men from the village running toward and gathering at the rocks and driftwood beside the pool. Watching with a curious fasination she noticed some of them bending and lifting something from the ground. A sudden chill ran up her spine as the wind picked up again, more forceful this time, blowing her long black hair across her face, briefly blocking her vision. Pulling her hair back with her hands she turned her attention once again to the path, shrugged her petite shoulders anew in sudden disinterest and continued the climb. Her father thaught her not to get involved in the affairs of others, she reminded herself. That was one reason he chose to build their home in the forest atop the mountain, far from the village or neighbors. Life was less complicated and more tranquil there than in town where there always seemed to be something going on, regardless of the time of day or night. Whatever the villagers were doing among the driftwood at that precise moment didn't really matter. It wasn't her business, and the men from the village seemed to be always busy about something. "Curious..." she intoned, as she picked up the pace.Eventually reaching the top of the mount she followed the age-old trail leading into the trees, wondering why she was not fatigued from the climb. In the past she was usually out of breath and had to stop and rest before entering the forest. But having energy or lack of it didn't seem at all important either, she pondered, as she nonchalantly trekked toward home. For just a moment she thought about going through the trees to the top of the falls, where they began to form before reaching the cliff edge. It was beautiful there, just before the rushing water began to speed toward the falls...roaring as it fell hastily to the pool beneath. Oddly, when that thought occured to her she felt a sudden chill causing her to shiver, even in the warmth of day. But abruptly as it happened she shrugged it off, as if it were incidental. 'It seems extremely odd," she contemplated, 'this sudden disinterest...' Today she seemed to disregard almost everything that would have, at any other time, naturally stirred her curious nature. So many things seemed strange today, but she could care less. She was casually thinking over these things, enjoying the sun and the sound of the breeze as it stirred the trees, prompting singing birds into flight, when she realized she had arrived at the house. Where did the time go, she wondered. She didn't recall walking through the forest, past the bamboo and the verdant canopy that hid the sun and sky. It seemed as if just moments before she was at the base of the cliff, standing barefoot atop the rocks and driftwood. But now here she was, standing before the house, puzzled to see her shoes resting at the base of the landing just below the porch. That was extremely odd. She never left the house without first placing her feet in those shoes. Ordinarily she would have seriously reflected on such curious events, but once again found herself quite disinterested.She retrieved a cloth from a kook and sat on the landing to clean her feet. Hearing the birds singing in the trees and smelling the jasmine her father planted near the house she began to think it was truly a wonderful day. The lilting melodies of the birds brought another thought to mind; the flute her father carved for her and taught her to play; how nice it would be to sit in the warm sun and play the song she had been humming on her way home. Rising, she placed the cloth back on its hook and turned toward the door. Upon opening she was startled by the disarray inside the house. Tables and vases were overturned, clothes strewn about the room and her mother's portrait knocked off the family altar. Although a rather grim discoverey she seemed quite unperturbed. "I'll have to tidy up before father arrives," she told herself. Without a second thought she set about cleaning and putting things back in their place. When the work was completed she retrieved the flute from her room and, returning to the front porch, sat in the afternoon sun playing her mother's favorite song. The melody calmed her, bringing back pleasant memories she kept tucked away deep in her heart. She remembered as a child romping on the grass in front of the house, chasing butterflies while her father worked in the garden. She smiled when she thought of butterflies...as a child she called them 'butter-flowers'. Her parents thought it was 'ka-wai-e' (cute), and didn't correct her pronunciation until she was older. She recalled the buzzing of the cicadas in summer, and the fireflies at evening, like little golden stars floating and gliding about so close to earth.She thought about the frost on the trees and the snow that would blanket the limbs in winter. She remembered her mother in the spring in her colorful kimono, singing and cleaning bean sprouts on the porch, periodically calling her name if she strayed too far from sight; her name...what was her name? The thought was like a mild shock. Her name? Her father would call her name often, when she accompanied him for kite flying in the hills, or picking berries in the forest... 'Curious', she thought. Once again her confusion was interrupted by an abrupt awareness; where was the music?She suddenly realized the thought of her name caused her to stop playing. Placing the reed to her lips she began to play anew, all her confused thoughts carried away by the melody wafting languidly on the afternoon breeze. Nothing else seemed to matter. The music would welcome her father home. He loved to listen to her flute. She remembered that at times, as she played, tears would come to his eyes. She was only eight or nine the first time she noticed tha, and stopped playing when she saw his tears, but he told her to continue. "There is nothing wrong," he had said. "Your playing is so beautiful, just like you. It touches my heart, like the music of angels." Remembering those words always made her smile. She whiled away the time that way, adrift in a sea of memories as she played. Eventually she decided she should go inside and begin preparation of the evening meal. 'Father is always hungry when he returns', she reminded herself.Once in the house she returned the flute to her room. While doing so she noticed her bedding on the floor. She didn't notice it before. How odd, she thought. She never started the day without first putting those things away. Perhaps she had been sleepwalking after all. Looking at her ruffled bedding stirred something locked deep within her subconscious. She began to feel that she should be resting; 'to rest would be good', she found herself thinking. 'I should lie down. There will be time to prepare for father's return'. That was her last thought before being stirred from a deep sleep, awakened by the sound of voices outside the walls of her tiny room. One was a woman's...a soft-spoken voice she recognized; 'Auntie Ryoko...' she reasoned. There was a man's voice as well, and the voices of children. Rising quickly, she hurried to her bedroom window. The sunlight filtered in through the clean rice paper of the shutter frame, accompanied by the sounds of people talking."Has it been a year...?" she heard her aunt say. It was more a statement than a question, as if her aunt were thinking aloud."It has," she heard a man reply...her uncle, Junichi; she recognizied his usually quiet and calm voice."The house looks the same," her aunt reminised. "As if someone were taking care of it. There are no leaves on the porch... Everything is just as we left it.""Perhaps someone from the village," said her husband. "Maybe a kindness from someone who remembered your sister-in-law.""Not likely," she replied. "She kept to herself and didn't mix well with the townspeople. She liked the privacy of life in the forest.""It is beautiful here," Junichi declared. "And the village...Tsukimi: it means 'Moon Viewing' dosen't it?""The village?" she asked. "Yes, it does. There are certain times of the year when the full moon is grand...gigantic, appearing larger than anywhere else within a hundred miles of this mountain. It draws many visitors, especially at 'Matsuri' (Festival) time. The best view is from this mountain."As they talked, she tried to open the window, hoping to get their attention. It was she who kept the house tidy and clean, inside and out. She wanted to tell them...wanted to see and speak to them but couldn't open the window. Neither clasp would release no matter how much effort she made. She appeared to lack the strength necessary to undo the latch... 'Perhaps because I've just awakened...' she thought. 'But that is odd...really so', she surmised. 'That's never happened before'. It was almost as if something was trying to prevent her from speaking to her relatives...as if the 'time' wasn't right. Turning from the window, she hurried through the house to the front room. Just before she reached the alcove entryway the front door abruptly opened, giving her reason to pause. It was Ryoko, who hesitated a moment, standing still and silent on the porch. Her eyes forward, she seemed to be staring right through her niece. Momentarily she stepped inside the house. Standing just beyond the archway her sad eyes scanned the room. Oddly enough she gave no greeting, completely ignoring her brother's distraught daughter."Auntie!" Exclaimed the confused girl.Nothing. Her aunt placed her bags on the floor without a word before turning to leave. On the porch she sat to put on her sandals, then stood up, calling to her husband as she brushed dust from her clothing. "Gather the children," she said. "First we should go to the tree. We should do that before we unpack."Following her aunt outside she looked about the yard. A moment later she saw her uncle coming from the garden on the east side of the house, her niece and nephew in tow, Calla flowers in their little hands. The girl followed after her aunt, forgetting her shoes once again."Auntie! Uncle!" Sjhe spoke loudly this time. Both ignored her, and none of the four looked in her direction. A cold breeze sprung up suddenly, causing her aunt to shudder."We should hurry," said Ryoko. "It seems to be getting colder. Outside of the obvious natural beauty I honestly have no idea why my brother chose to live in these isolated mountains."The girl stood quietly where she had stopped, perplexed, watching her kin trek toward the deep woods. 'Curious', she pondered. 'They simply ignored me...rudely acting as though I wasn't here. Is Auntie upset with me for some reason?' The thought puzzled her more than all those odd sensations she experienced since becoming aware of herself standing on the driftwood earlier this morning...or was it yesterday...or last week? Abruptly finding herself dormant and lost in thought she snapped out of her reflection and reanimated, chasing after Ryoko and her little family. She followed them along what her father called their secret path: a path through the forest that led to a small clearing and the large tree beneath which he had proposed to her mother. The ancient tree, which was actually two trees that had grown together, intertwined as one, was immense, and hundreds of years old; no one really knew how long it had been in the forest. For her it was a special tree for many reasons; it was beneath that twin-tree that her parents had shared their first embrace, where their wedding was held, their vows made, and where her mother was buried.Presently, as she followed Ryoko, getting ever closer to that great tree, she began to feel an intense sensation of cold; a supreme cold that chilled her to the bone. The closer she came the colder and more uncomfortable she felt. It was the first real physical discomfort she had realized for...how long was it? She couldn't recal. There was something else: not a physical sensation, but an extremely uncomfortable uneasiness of the mind or spirit. She couldn't tell. She just knew she was overwhelmed and gripped by an abrupt, unsettling, internal feeling of gloom...an intense feeling of sorrow. It was almost suffocating. Unaware of her steps she suddenly realized she had reached the site of the tree. The coldness had intensified almost beyond her abitity to withstand it. She paused then, about thirty feet from the tree, watching as her relatives began kneeling and bowing, three times in succession. She remained where she had stopped, motionless, that short distance away, as her cousins placed the flowers at her mother's grave. 'They're paying their respects to mother', she thought. Her aunt was crying, her uncle standing beside her, holding the children's hands."She was so young," sobbed her aunt, her voice trailing off.Her husband, Junichi, nodded his head. "She was your sister-in-law..." he began."No," his wife interrupted. "I can accept her death, even though she was young with a new family. She passed away naturally, because of illness. It was Heaven's design."To see her aunt react in such a way touched her heart, bringing tears to her eyes. In spite of the cold she found herself stepping forward, approaching as Ryoko wept, and stopping just behind reached out a hand to comfort her. As she placed her hand gently on her aunt's trembling shoulder Ryoko spoke. "Not Aoi," she said tearfully. "It is Asako I'm thinking of. My sister-in-law died young but lived a good life. She found and wed her first love and gave birth to a sweet little girl; a beautiful, blue-eyed girl. Toshima said her eyes were the color of Heaven, so she must be 'Tenshi' (an angel). She came into this life like May sunshine, spreading warmth and love. Her life was just beginning when she lost her mother, and then to die in such a tragic way; fleeing from those criminals...falling from this mountain."As her hand touched, and passed through her aunt's shoulder, and upon hearing her name spoken, 'Asako'...an explosion of memories suddenly and violently assailed her confused and shocked mind, like gale-driven storm waves fiercely crashing against the shore. Pictures and images flooded her consciousness, unabated. She saw herself back at the house, at the end of a long day, preparing dinner for her father. Three men forced their way inside. She struggled with a dark-bearded beast of a man. The others laughed as she kicked and fought...her dress was torn, she used her nails, scrapping them across his eyes while his arms were busy crushing her ribs and squeezing the breath from her. She escaped his grip then, as he tore a locket from her neck. The other two tried to grab her and furniture crashed to the floor in the melee but somehow she made it to the door, bursting free and running headlong into the sheltering darkness. Through that blackness, running in terror with the three outlaws close behind she remembered reaching the cliff edge, choosing to jump rather than let them have her...hoping to land in the pool below and screaming in terror as she fell. The soul-piercing scream was audible to her even now, lost amid her frightened thoughts, lost amid the helplessness, confusion and terror she had felt at that moment... She found herself screaming once again, not just in terror, or sudden shock and awareness, but in rage...in supreme anger and malice; a malevolent hatred for those killers. At that moment she somehow knew they had killed her father before finding the house...and her.Now she knew her father's bones were buried here, buried beneath the rocks and ground alongside the ashes of her mother and herself. And at last she 'knew' her name; she was Asako. Her mother had named her: "It means Heavenly Beauty," her father had told her.As Asako's transparent hand passed through her aunt's shoulder, Ryoko shuddered anew, gasping when hearing the girl's terrified scream; not with her ears, but with her soul. At that moment Junichi placed an arm around her in comfort. "What was that?" she queried. "That scream?"Junichi looked puzzled... "What scream?" he asked."That mournful wail," she replied, a hint of urgency in her voice."I heard no wailing...no scream. Only the sound of the wind and the birds in the trees. You're upset," he said. "It's just your imagination."Ryoko trembled. "Let's return to the house," she stammered. "I want to lie down."Turning to leave, they were still unaware of Asako's presence. Ryoko took a couple of steps, passing through her niece as if she were made of non-substantial mist. The frightened, forlorn girl turned about abruptly, staring wide-eyed at her aunt's back, and like a doomed lost soul watched as if from a distance as the tiny group returned along the path through the trees. As she watched she became aware of the wind. Not just blowing, furling her dress or wafting her hair, but blowing through her, and at that moment all the curious and puzzling things she experienced lately suddenly made sense. It seemed as if she found herself standing at the foot of the falls just this morning, but it had been one year since she died... 'She died...' Those words reverberated through her consciousness, resounding like echoes in an underground cavern. That's what her aunt and uncle were speaking about back at the house. They had come to remember her and her father on the anniversary of their deaths. She suddenly felt completely and dismally alone, as if abandoned by Heaven. The reality of it all left her bewildered, but there was one steady thought that remained; it was today, one year ago...the thought drifted aimlessly in her mind sea of confusion: 'Today was her memorial day...'

CHAPTER 2
Time passed slowly...or quickly. Asako wasn't quite certain. She had lost all perception of time. It seemed only yesterday that she became aware on the rocks and driftwood at the foot of the falls. But wasn't it just yesterday that her aunt's family came to her father's house? It wasn't, she knew, but it seemed so. It was then she became aware of her own death. 'Time' now had little significance; it really didn't matter, but the fact her relatives were in the house mattered. Because they were there, Asako chose to leave the house, to stay in the forest near the great twin-tree beneath which her parents were buried. Her bones lay beneath the rocks there as well, which may explain why she felt extremely cold when in close proximity of the tree. The cold was the only 'physical' sensation she experienced of late. It was overwhelming, not actually physical, but it seemed so; she 'felt' the cold all the way through her. She didn't feel hunger, thirst, fatigue, or other things common to breathing beings. But when in the vicinity of the tree she felt a chilling cold that intensified, numbing her senses the closer she approached. Perhaps because her remains were buried there, perhaps because she should be elsewhere and not still 'here', or perhaps because spirits couldn't come close to their own resting places. 'It was a shame', she thought. She loved that tree; the great curved and twisted limbs, the shade it provided in summer and the shelter from spring showers. Growing up in the forest she often went there, climbing high as she dared, playing hide and seek games with her parents. The twin-tree was their special place her father said often after her mother died: "See how the two have become one," he said. "From the time they were seedlings, each was the other's first love. Growing together, their roots entwined in eternal love, always embracing, always protecting one another, each cannot survive without it's opposite."The tree was something she held onto dearly: much more than before. It was a connection to her former life, and more important to her than the house in which she was born and raised. Asako felt close to home when within sight of the tree, and sat nearby often, playing sad songs on her flute. She avoided the house while her relatives were there. Her aunt sensed her presence, which was not as much a problem as one might imagine. Asako disliked troubling others and would never harm her kin. But she knew Ryoko sensed the intense rage that she felt against the men who killed her father: the same men who attacked her and drove her to her death. Ryoko was fearful of that rage, without quite understanding just what it was; she only knew it felt like a tangible evil presence. Anger is an intense emotion: ugly, malevolent and dangerous; a 'force' that even animals can sense. It originates in the darkest corner of the mind, and can easily go to a point where it can't be controlled. Combined with righteous indignation and a thirst for vengeance it is even more powerful, oppressive, and threatening; a twin-edged sword capable of cutting the one who wields it as well as the one to whom it is directed.Although not 'aware' of many things, Asako knew that of the three men who had killed her father, only one still lived. The others were slain by the samurai hired to bring them to Justice. Somehow she knew the leader's name: Miyamoto. She 'knew', but didn't know how or why. Her powers of perception were limited but steadily growing. She didn't know where he was, but felt she would in time. She knew her despair, anger and grudge; her desire to avenge her father was over-powering and beginning to frighten her. It was unpredictable, causing her to feel as though she would lose her sanity. There must be more, she imagined, to this after-life existence. In life her purpose was to serve her father, which she did dutifully without question. But now she felt there was no purpose to her existence. Perhaps her desire to find and punish Miyamoto kept her from moving on to wherever it is that those who have died go. She had not met others like herself, and often wondered where the spirits of her parents might be. She recalled a tale once told by her mother. She was only seven at the time, but it left a profound impression. It was about an imagined place called the 'Gate', where the spirits of those murdered would go. The gatekeeper, a murder victim herself, offered each soul that approached three choices to decide upon before they could move on. First, revenge against those responsible for their death, which placed them under the law of retribution, opening the way for others to revenge against them and damning their souls to a second and final death from which there was no return. The second choice was to wait for a chance to be reborn, at which time they would lose all memory of their previous life. The third: forgive those responsible, after which the guardian let them pass through the Gate and enter whatever place it was that existed beyond. Those who couldn't choose remained in the shadows nearby, in a state of limbo until they could decide upon one of the three options. She wondered if in fact such a story were true, as she had remained here in this place where she was born, and was unaware of the events of her death, or that she had become an earthbound spirit, until one year had passed.Her confusion at times consumed her. Her parents taught her to forgive others, and while she could forgive for her death, she found it impossible to forgive the death of her father. At times her thoughts drifted back to childhood. How she longed to return to those happy, bygone days before her mother's illness and death. She never saw her father cry before that. Because he had to care for her he had the strength to go on in spite of having lost his first love. Asako recalled her father sad that wise lovers, looking to the future, prepare for separation. "Meeting," he said, "was in fact the beginning of separation." But even knowing that, it was difficult for him to accept her mother's death. Everything he did afterward was for Asako. She knew that even as a child, and often tried to console him. she told him... "Mommy is gone. Don't worry , Daddy. I'll take care of you until she returns." She was only eight then, but felt as if she were a big girl. As a child, she didn't quite understand the concept of death, and honestly believed her mother would eventually return. When young, thoughts like that brought comfort, but now seemed to fuel her sorrow, leading to a river of turbulent, rushing thoughts cascading toward a malignant whirlpool of malicious, spiteful feelings that intensified her anguish, bringing her to a point of soulful suffering where she lost herself.She thought about the flute at that moment. When she played, she had an image of her mother in her mind; a pleasant one of her mother seated before her mirror, preparing for her husband's return from labor in the forest. As the only woodsman in Tsukimi, he supplied wood for the blacksmith, the villager's cooking stoves and for their heat in the cold winter months. "Your father works so hard for us," she recalled her mother saying, "we should always look our best for him." Asako thought her mother always looked her best...like 'tenshi' (an angel) she imagined. Now, having had enough reflection, she raised the flute to her lips and began to play her mother's favorite 'Ai no san-ka', the melodious notes carrying her far away from the agony and sense of loss that was steadily consuming her. As she played, a crystalline tear formed in one eye and ran down her cheek.Meanwhile, in the house, Ryoko suddenly awakened. She was sitting atop their pallete when Junichi stirred beside her. Opening his eyes he spoke calmly. "What is it?""That music again, coming from the woods," she answered. "It was Aoi Chan's favorite... Can't you hear it?"Rising to a seated position he sighed, then strained his ears. "Nothing," he replied. "I hear nothing but the crickets and the wind in the trees.""And the jasmine?" she asked.Junichi had to admit he could smell jasmine. "But the garden is close to the house.""The jasmine isn't in bloom, have you forgotten that?" And even if it was, inside the house, with windows and doors closed, there would be no smell," she affirmed. "It's only when I hear the flute. The more I hear that melody the stronger the smell. It's overpowering; a pleasant aroma that intensifies, becoming so sickly sweet I can't tolerate it." She was silent a moment... "Is Asako Chan trying to tell me something?"Junichi lay back down, speechless, resting his head on the neck support as he stared blankly at the ceiling."Kyoko saw her yesterday..." Ryoko said with a hint of finality."Saw her?" Asked Junichi. "Saw who?"Ryoko sighed. "Asako."Rising up again he looked at his wife with concern. "Asako Chan is gone," he said. "You know that. You saw her body a year ago, just before the cremation. And Kyoko is a child, with a child's imagination. She loved her cousin and misses her. She doesn't understand what death is."Ryoko's response was silence; it was her way, he knew. She wasn't one to speak without first thinking, refrained from argument and never wasted words. She was practical, but couldn't dismiss the fact that she heard the flute. The melody was one she knew her sister-in-law favored. And she knew her niece loved the jasmine Toshima had planted. Finally she spoke; "Kyoko Chan was playing in the garden last evening at dusk. She heard Asako's flute and followed the sound to the edge of the trees. She said she saw her cousin there, wearing a blue dress. Kyoko said she looked very sad.""A five year-old's imagination..." Junichi intoned. He dislied having to repeat himself, but knew Ryoko was adament. He tried to reason with her; "Asako was cremated in traditional white, not blue. And the flute was buried with her ashes. Once having died no one returns," he reaffirmed. Yet even as he said those words something deep inside his heart told him he really had no way of knowing whether or not ghosts existed. Like most children he grew up hearing tales of spirits of lost loves or family members returning from the grave to comfort their loved ones or complete unfinished business, and there were many tales of vengeful ghosts seeking retribution on the living. But he had never seen one...as far as he knew.Ryoko remained silent. It was a heavy silence that hung over them like a funeral pall and made Junichi a bit more than uncomfortable. He wanted to speak, to break that deafening quiet, but couldn't utter a word. Many thoughts raced through his tired mind, one of which he almost voiced, but his wife spoke first; "She wasn't ready," she said in a hushed whisper, almost forebodingly."Na-ni' (What)?" he said."She wasn't ready," Ryoko repeated. "She left this world too soon...too quickly...violently... She's left her shadow behind..."Her somber words traied off, sending a shudder up his spine, chilling him to his marrow. Grasping at thin air, his mind sped to find the right words. He tried to prod her back from what he feared was more than just a dark mood; she appeared to be agonizing over these things, descending into the darkness of despair. "You're speaking of memories," Junichi offered. "Like love; it lingers and endures long after a loved-one has gone."Her response was silence, her face expressionless. After what to him seemed an etenity she spoke. "I honestly wish it wer no more than that..." Her ominous, trembling voice trailed off once again, as if she were in deep thought. Her sentence incomplete, silence followed. They both lapsed into wordless reflection by then, but soon the heavy pall was broken."I want to leave here tomorrow," she said with determination.They planned to stay longer, to prepare the house and property for buyers. But there was no arguing with Ryoko once her mind was set. She was stubborn, and for the sake of harmony he conceded. There were times, he told himself, when dealing with her moods that it was best to yield. "Try to rest," he said. "We'll leave in the morning."Ryoko quietly laid back. As her husband closed his eyes to sleep, that welcomed refuge now seemed to escape him as well. As he lay there beside her, his wife's words kept resounding in his weary consciousness: "She's left her shadow behind..."Asako wasn't certain when her relatives left, but once realizing they had she returned to the house. Time passed, flowers bloomed and withered, she remembered multi-colored, fallen leaves scattered by autumn winds, snow covered trees and ice, rain and storms and more flowers growing in he garden. Seasons came and went as time passed, but it seemed as just a moment to her. Consumed by rage she was unaware of other things. Eventually strangers came to her father's house. From listening to them speak among themselves she knew they had purchased the property. She remained in the house, watching as men came to the forest to cut the large oak trees into logs and blocks they placed in the river. The wood floated to and over the falls where it continued down stream and past the village to be loaded on wagons and carted away. Of all the trees, only the smallest, and her parent's special tree were spared. That special twin-tree was trimmed, just slightly, and what was taken was loaded on wagons that carried smaller limbs. Her ashes and bones and the remains of her parents were left to rest in the earth beneath the lesser shade of that one twin-tree. With so many of the other big trees gone, she reasoned, the sun would now shine on their graves at different times each day, perhaps bringing warmth to their sleeping souls. The workmen fashioned a small gated-enclosure around the huge tree, creating a protective barrier for the gravesite. Something told her it was done at Ryoko's request; perhaps an agreement made before selling the property.Oddly enough, none of these things mattered to Asako; they were mundane things that concerned the living. Still, she was curious about the trees that had been cut down and carted away. 'Where are those men taking the trees?' she wondered. It was more than idle curiosity. She considered the trees for what seemed a long period of time. There was something deepwithin her that compelled her to investigate. No sooner than the thought to do so entered her mind than she took a step forwad from where she stood, suddenly finding herself standing elsewhere, on a wide wood and stone bridge, beneath which were the fast moving currents of a river, a river much wider than the one that flowed through her mountain forest. The area within which she found herself was shrouded in mist, the night sky hidden by a black canopy of clouds. Somehow she knew hat the oak planks on which she stood came from the forest where she grew up, but where exactly she was at this moment, why she was here, and how much time had passed; of those things she was oblivious. She was, however, quite aware of something she found extremely curious; although an earthbound spirit, she was evidently not bound by natural laws or commonplace things like time, space or distance. It was as if she could move through and beyond those things with the speed of thought. Some inner sense told her that she was, all of a sudden, very far away from home.So focused on her thoughts, she failed to notice the man standing behind her. He was carrying a lamp, and had been walking with a swagger. Not out of arrogance: his unsteadiness was the result of too much wine or sake. Uncertain if his eyes were decieving him he had stopped in his tracks the moment he saw Asako 'appear' suddenly just a few steps ahead of him. Pausing in shock, he could only stare. Evil thoughts formed in his inebriated mind as he percieved the curves of her body beneath the wind blown silk of her dress. Aroused by desire he took a step in her direction. When he did his foot scrapped against the surface of the wood, the rasping sound alerting the girl. Turning abruptly she faced him; a leering, unshaven ruffian that brought back memories of Miyamoto and his followers. The wicked grin on this man's rough-hewn face broadened... "My, my," he drawled crudely, "where did such a beauty come from?"She loathed his improper thoughts, which she could sense. They made her feel uncomfortable...embarassed...and angry. As the toll keeper stared wide-eyed, Asako vanished in a blink, instantly becoming a swirling, almost transparent mist that suddenly blended with the fog, leaving him alone, startled and stunned. Doubting his own senses, he begrudgingly mumbled something about liquid 'spirits' causing one to see spirits, as he first pouted and then staggered along on his way.Several months later, an ocean trip away, back in Asako's island country and many miles away from her ather's house, in a small seaside town another drama was playing itself out. Local authorities had surrounded a murderer they were pursuing. In his haste to escape the outlaw grabbed a young girl as hostage. Holding her by the hair with one hand and his knife against her throat with the other he attempted to barter with the lawmen. "Come closer," he threatened, "and she will bleed! Bring me a horse," he demanded. "Let me ride away and I won't harm the girl. Once outside the village I'll release her."The traumatized child, tears streming down, was too scared to utter a sound as the authorities inched closer, weapons in hand. Abruptly the leadr, a police captain, signaled his men to halt, motioned to one of his subordinates who, after speaking withhis superior, quickly left the scene.It wasn't long before a crowd of curious onlookers gathered, among them the terrified mother of the child, held back by two officers. After what seemed an eternity to the girl's mother the crowd parted as a lone rider astride a black horse slowly made his way forward. When the horseman was within sight of the fugitive he pulled back on the reins, bringing the animal to a halt. The rider sat motionless, his intense gaze surveying the scene. When the eyes of the criminal met those of the rider his confidence began to waver, perspiration beading his brow as his knife hand trembled. There was something in the steel-eyed glare of the horseman that waekened the fugitive's resolve. "Come closer," he stammered. "Dismount and bring the animal here."The rider complied, came closer and then slid from the saddle. With his right hand he tugged on the reins, urging the horse forward. When within a couple of feet of the outlaw te culprit demanded; "Stop there!"The horseman did so, then suddenly, in less time than it takes a gnat to blink, his left arm reached across his midsection and, unsheathing the sword in his obi (belt), he sliced downward at an angle, severing the hand that held the knife at the girl's throat. The swordsman flicked the blo9od from his blade, re-sheathed the weapon and swept up the girl to safety with his left arm, all the while still holding the horse's reins with his right. All was done before the shock of what happened registered in the mind of the outlaw. Suddenly aware and screaming in agony and confusion he dropped to his knees as the peace officers rushed to subdue him. The girl's mother broke free from the men holding her and sprang toward her frightened daughter and the girl's savior, showering the child with hugs and kisses and the warrior with gratitude and praise. Meanwhile, the man who had been sent for a horse arrived, only to find the animal was no longer needed.The police captain, gently pushing the hostage's mother aside, addressed the swordsman. "Who are you, sir?"The man sighed, then stated; "Simply a passerby: one who serves the cause of justice."The captain inquired; "Your name, sir?""Ahn Sung Ji," he answered. "Formerly a samurai in the service of the emperor.""You are Korean.""Yea," replied Sung Ji."I've not met a Korean samrai before," said the officer. "What brings you to our little seaside village?""Business," revealed Ahn. "I was on the way to the stables to board my horse. I've secured passage on a boat bound for China. There is a nobleman there who requires my services."The captain nodded. "Hai... I see," he spoke slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. "I suppose I should thank you. I know you have the gratitude of the child's mother. When does this boat sail?""At sunrise," replied Sung Ji."Then you should take a room at the inn," said the captain. I'll speak to the innkeeper as you board your horse. The landlord is a distant cousin. Since you've helped the child, there'll be no charge for your lodging.""I can pay for my room," said the samurai."Please," said the officer. "Allow me this kindness. The man you've disabled has killed many innocents. You've done our community a service."Preferring not to argue or offend the captain, the samurai conceded... "Hai," he said with a slight bow."As for your journey," said the officer, "may Heaven guide you.""Either way," said the Korean, "it's something I'm compelled to do...must do. Like helping that child. 'Something' which I can't explain is prompting me to make this voyage. I've learned to trust those 'feelins' when they come.""There are those who believe mortal men and women are no more than pawns of 'Un-mei' (Fate)," mused the officer."Be that as it may," declared the samurai, "a promise has been made and must be kept. I have my duty. Evil never rests and those who fight against it must be ever vigilant. Concerning this journey: I give it no more than a single thought. Regardless of what we do in this life or where we go, 'time' unfolds and destiny awaits."

CHAPTER 3
In the village of Tsukimi, inside the Jade Teahouse the atmoshere was airy and light, with nary a whisper as thirsty patrons hung onto virtually every word of the beared storyteller. Having recently returned from China he had an aura of worldliness about him the work-a-day locals held in high regard. The daily lives of the people of Tsukimi revolved around responsibilities, work and family duties, which kept them from ocean voyages and grand adventures. So every time Jubai the Dreamer returned to their tiny Japanese village, the Teahouse filled to capacity, the customers eager for new tales of high adventure. Jubai enjoyed his celebrity status as he downed one gratis cup after another. The cups were filled with the best hot sake the Jade Teahouse provided, so Jubai's stories became more intriguing as the sake did its job and the night wore on. Presently, he was entertaining his listeners with what he called a 'samurai ghost story'... In the great Capital," he proclaimed, "it seemed as if everyone knew the name Ahn Sung Ji...""The Left Hand of God'?" cried out a man from the crowd. "He was in this village just two years gone...or perhaps...was it three?"The interruption signaled total silence for a brief moment. Then a woman shouted; "Let him tell his story!"Jubai cleared his throat, with just a subtle hint of indignation, slowly sipped his sake as the assembly impatiently waited, then continued. "You know him as a Korean national and former samurai in the service of the emperor. he eventually became a wandering mercenary who serves the cause of justice. He is a left-handed swordsman and a brooding, fierce warrior famous for his exploits in battle and skill with the katana. Many outlaw swordsmen faced him in battle, only to meet either defeat or death. His confidence, at times, borders on conceit, yet he holds tightly to the 'bu shi-do' (warrior way) code of ethics that personifies the samurai of this, his adopted Island Nation. Always seeking new challenges and adventures, he was intrigued by a story told by nomads and travelers returning from China. They spoke of the plight of a wealthy landowner, Chiang Vu Tien, in a southern province who had spent a fortune on the construction of a toll bridge above the widest river in his region. he immense, imposing stone and wooden structure was the oly means across a wide impassable river and connected the ancient road from his village to the main throughfare into the city of the governor. During daylight hours many travelers and merchants used the bridge, but at nightfall all traffic stopped. No one dared cross the foreboding structure after dark, as it was rumored the malicious, unhappy spirit of a young maiden at times appeared on the bridge, playing a haunting, melancholy tune upon her spectral flute. There were those who dared cross the bridge in darkness and lived to tell of it, but there were also those who had done so and either heard the lonesome dirge or seen the ghostly, gossamer figure. All who had heard her forlorn melody were filled with dread and apprehension, while those who saw her delicate spectral form died within three days."Jubai paused at tht moment, looking foelornly into his empty cup. The sudden stillness was interrupted as the landlord quickly poured a fresh cup, and a longhaired, almond-eyed waitress hurried to place the drink on the table within the storyteller's reach. So focused on the drink, Jubai didn't notice the frightened expressions on the faces of some patrons, nor was he aware of the murmuring that followed his mention of the spector's flute."A flute...?" voiced the waitress.The landlord glared at her: his youngest daughter, Asuka, which prompted her to hurry over to retrieve empty cups from a table. The little drama escaped Jubai as he took another soothing drink. After sipping the hot sake and savoring its effects for a moment he continued his tale."Chiang Tien feared Heaven, 'yu-lai' (ghost) and spirits, but he loved money more than he feared these things. He knew if travelers were afraid to cross the bridge at night his toll profits would dwindle. Not wishing to tempt Fate, he never visited that bridge after dark, nor personally investigated the rumors that had spread throughout the region. Over time the sightings increased, the tales becoming more sinister as they were passed from one person to another, which is the nature of rumors. Travelers even carried tales of the haunting back to their homelands. The ghostly events prompted Chiang to offer a reward to anyone who could end the curse. Every Taoist priest, monk, mystic or ghost chaser who tried failed, some meeting the same fate as others who had seen the transparent image of the young girl floating above the polished planks of the infamous bridge. When the story of Chiang's plight reached Ahn Sung Ji, he sent a message to the landowner offering his services. Immediately Chiang Tien invited the mercenary to his homeland and castle. Unknowningly guided by Fate the warrior accepted the invitation, secured passage on a sea faring vessel and began the journey that would lead him to a confrontation with the dead...a journey toward predestination."Jubai paused to take another drink. Many captivated listeners followed the example, to the displeasure of the landlord. Eager to hear more they were neglecting their cups. giving full attention to Jubai's tale. Anxious for profit the landlord, Toshiro, prompted the almond-eyed girl to bring Jubai more sake, then... "Mariko Chan," he called out. "Help your sister asuka serve the patrons." Turning his attention to those assembled he encouraged... :Drink, drink. The night is young.""Hai," declared an elderly man. "Bring a fresh container to our table!"
Some ordered rice wine as Mariko, Asuka and the other serving maids rushed to fill empty cups. Placing his on the table the Japanese nomad immediately grasped the new one Asuka Chan placed before him, took a long drink, sighed heavily and then continued.
“The voyage began beneath a blue sky that soon became overcast and dark with foreboding clouds. The blue sea became gray, reflecting the changing sky, while dense, black clouds billowed and swirled as the winds increased, blowing with fierce intensity over massive waves that rose and descended, speedily driving the small ship toward an uncertain Destiny. Eventually the vessel, having successfully weathered the storm, reached the China coast intact and from the tiny seaport the warrior traveled five days by wagon to the nearest village, then proceeded on foot. Following the main road to the fabled bridge he eventually reached the notorious site, where he explained to the toll-master why he had come. “There will be no charge for you to cross,” said the man. “Once you reach the other side follow the road to the village. When there, anyone can direct you to the city and the castle of Chiang Tien.”
Jubai was interrupted at that point… “What is this bridge like?” queried one of the men in the crowd.
“The bridge is long…serpentine,” replied Jubai after a frustrated pause, “more than a half mile in length, it curves, and is wide enough for two wagons to pass in opposite directions and still there would be room on either side for those walking or on horseback. It was fashioned similar to our bridges, but different in design, as there are few Japanese artisans on the continent. The Chinese built this bridge partially with Japanese wood, and with Chinese mortar and stone. It is a great accomplishment, constructed in the way of Chinese bridges and built to withstand the river’s currents, the elements and ravages of time.”
Jubai took another drink, causing his body to shake involuntarily. Gathering his composure he continued... “No one can know the sensation of having finally reached that bridge, or what Ahn Sung Ji’s thoughts were as he stood before it.”
“There is one among you who knows!” said a voice abruptly. Startled, Jubai turned his attention toward a dark corner. All eyes were suddenly averted to the brooding figure seated there in the shadows. Jubai was mortified. The stranger’s voice was commanding and confident, like that of someone in authority.
The storyteller stammered as he inquired…”May I ask, sir, who are you?”
“One who knows what Ahn Sung Ji’s thoughts were as he stood before that bridge,” the stranger answered curtly. “I can tell you,” said he, “that it was springtime, and although the weather was mild beneath a sun lit sky an air of tragedy permeated the atmosphere of that place, and even in the light of day the samurai sensed an ominous presence. An icy chill ran up his spine as he stepped onto the massive wooden structure. Momentarily surprised by the involuntary spasm that shock his tensed shoulders, he paused as his heart raced and beads of perspiration formed on his furrowed brow. His sense of dread abruptly shifted to one of ‘wi-heom-han’ (danger…risk), as if a dark force of extreme fierceness and violent rage suddenly gripped his soul; a malignant maelstrom that caused him to suddenly freeze. It was as if the bridge knew he was a man of blood.
The toll-man, puzzled by the samurai’s behavior, asked: “Why do you hesitate?”
The question was followed by silence. As the toll-keeper awaited a reply, a mournful wind rose abruptly, blowing briskly with purpose amidst the sullen, icy quiet. The wind soon subsided and all was silent once again.
The wind and the toll-man’s voice, piercing the quiet gloom, brought the samurai back to the moment… “The air seems colder atop this bridge,” he said. “As if death itself resides here.”
The toll-man mused: ”You’re not the first one to say that. Most likely you won’t be the last…”
Without looking back, Sung Ji asked: “What do you know of the curse? Is there truth to the rumors?”
The man at his back replied: “Perhaps… perhaps not. I’ve heard it said that a forest died so this bridge could live. As for the undead…my predecessor claimed to have seen the girl; the face of an angel, her body delicate and transparent, she was floating amid a swirling mist. I’m not certain if he heard the haunting melody of her flute. But it is said that all who’ve seen her died within three days. He died within that time. Fell from a balcony I was told, his face twisted in terror. But then, he was a drunk…was drunk when he died. He was beating his wife after she had caught him with another woman. It was she who told authorities he cried out in fright, something about a devil woman in blue, just before he backed over the railing. She said she saw no woman, that there was no one else there. There have been more tales like that, all connected to the specter in blue and this bridge. But these are only stories I’ve heard. I’ve never stayed here past sunset…the night and the darkness are different here. Darker…malevolent… Even the stars flee the blackness; or so I’ve heard. Always departing at twilight, I’ve seen nothing. Heard nothing. But I’ve felt the cold and sensed tragedy in the air. At times I’ve detected the smell of jasmine, even though there is no jasmine anywhere near this place. Look about warrior. Even the birds, rodents and reptiles avoid this bridge. I’ve never seen so much as an insect come near.”
Sung Ji scowled, pouted, muttered a curse, and then proceeded on his way. There was something unearthly about the bridge, nothing that could be seen, but rather felt; something in the atmosphere. With each step his apprehension grew. He felt as though he was precariously approaching an appointment with Destiny, just as you’ve said, Jubai the Dreamer.”
Jubai flinched at the mention of his name, momentarily taking another drink as the stranger continued the tale… “Abruptly Sung Ji paused once more as the scent of jasmine filled the air, and for just a moment he thought he heard the lilting melody of a flute carried on the late afternoon breeze. The jasmine stirred something secured deep within memory…something familiar, yet he couldn’t quite determine what it was. Listening intently, he perceived only the wind and the distant, forlorn cry of a lone seagull. “That tune,” he mused, “I’ve heard it before… long ago.”
The toll-man strained his ears, then said…”I hear only the wind.”
Sung Ji turned to face him. “Only the wind?”
The man nodded his head. “Perhaps the flute is not for me to hear. I’ve heard stories of those who were accompanied by others when crossing this bridge. One may hear the specter’s song, while their companion will hear only the wind.”
“Ara-so (I see),” replied the Korean. “Kam-sam-ni da (Thank you), for your help.”
Then, shaking off the feeling of impending doom Sung Ji quietly proceeded, angry with himself for his hesitation and the confusion that stifled his resolve. He was, after all, a soldier who bravely faced overwhelming odds many times; but this was different…It was the ‘Unknown’. Yet in spite of the warning signals he had an agenda and could not waste time over concern for fables or rumors. Refusing to give it another moment of consideration, he crossed the bridge in the failing light.
He found his way to Chiang Vu Tien: a man who wondered why a samurai who didn’t believe in spirits would accept the task of lifting a curse. Sung Ji explained that in his experience, where there was death there were usually men to blame and not phantoms. “If I fail,” he told the landowner, “you owe me nothing.” Thus he began his investigation, speaking first with local authorities, religious leaders who had failed to find a solution and those who had known victims of the haunting. In every case he discovered that those who had fallen victim to the curse were either self-proclaimed priests or magicians who proved to be charlatans that took unfair advantage of believers, or were disreputable, ruthless men who bullied or were abusive to others.
“Seems to me,” concluded the Korean, “this girl, phantom or not, is doing the community a service.” Of course Tien could not accept that conclusion and just let matters be, as it did nothing to solve his problem. Whether innocents or troublemakers were falling victim to the curse was incidental; the haunting had a negative effect on profits. Being a matter of money Sung Ji knew that Tien would be relentless in his efforts to remedy the situation. Too, Sung Ji could not just walk away; his reputation would suffer. He never before failed to fulfill a commitment or complete what he had begun. After looking into the matter his curiosity was aroused and he was determined to discover the truth.”
All those in the Jade Teahouse listened intently as the man in the shadows told his story, which, some thought, rivaled those of Jubai the Dreamer. The stranger was articulate, obviously educated, knowledgeable, and weaved an interesting tale. Meanwhile, although mortified, a brooding Jubai held his tongue and dared not interrupt the storyteller. Some instinct warned him the stranger was a man to be wary of, like a sleeping tiger.
“In his search for the truth,” the man continued, “the samurai was told by many that there was a magician who dwelled outside the city; a healer who appeared to be in tune with Heaven. “In fact,” said one of the citizens, “that mystic looked into the situation for Chiang, but for some unknown reason chose to do nothing about it. Still, if anyone can help you solve the puzzle, it is Kwai the Seer”.
And so, without further hesitation, the swordsman left the safety of the city walls behind and entered the wilderness in search of the wizard.”

CHAPTER 4

“You seek to unravel the mystery of the haunted toll bridge.”
The matter-of-fact-statement statement caught Sung Ji by surprise. He had just met the Chinese mystic and had only given his name when introducing himself. He said nothing more, yet Kwai somehow ‘knew’ why he had come.
“How did you know that?” asked the Korean.
Kwai, who had been watching the steam languidly rise from his teacup raised his head and eyed Sung Ji. After a brief pause he asked: “What? Is it a secret? If you don’t want others to know these things then don’t take ocean voyages and don’t go on ghost hunts. Just stay home.”
Again the samurai was surprised by Kwai’s unexpected response. He had revealed nothing about his journey, from where he had come or why.
“I just wondered,” Sung Ji began, “how you knew…”
Before he could finish speaking, Kwai interrupted; “Is this an interview?” he asked sarcastically. “Have you come to seek my help or pry into my affairs? Perhaps you simply want to become an apprentice?”
“I hoped you could help,” replied Ahn, as he lowered his eyes, bowing his head respectfully. He wasn’t certain, but imagined just for an instant he saw Kwai smile. ‘Perhaps’, reasoned Sung Ji, ‘he’s playing some kind of magician’s mind game’. The shaman reminded him of his first Martial Art Teacher. He too, always spoke in riddles.
Momentarily Kwai drank from his cup and after savoring the taste, returned to the matter of the haunting. “Evil in life, evil in death”, he said. “But this one, although she has a huge grievance, is not evil. There are those who, after death, find they’ve left too much unresolved and they can’t move on.”
Sung Ji wondered aloud… “Then where are they if no longer here?”
“They?” said Kwai, “Presently, allow me to focus on this one single spirit.”
The samurai bowed his head submissively.
Kwai cleared his throat, paused a moment to empathize his indignation and then continued… “She dwells in an empty space between this world and the world of after-death. The distance between the spirit world and this one is non-existent, yet very great. She is lost, perhaps afraid. She is lonely, sad, confused, angry and spiteful…but she is not evil. It isn’t her nature, but perhaps in her confusion she is close to despair, close to stepping outside the boundaries of reason or sanity. At the moment she can do little more than drift in this world, but her spiritual powers will develop in time. When, I can’t be certain. But this I do know; a vengeful, ireful or insane spirit is one to be feared. That type of ghost is unpredictable, lethal and dangerous. She isn’t like that, at least not presently.”
Sung Ji listened in silence while scanning the room as he sat on the floor at the polished, cherry wood table, a steaming cup of ginseng and herbal tea in front of him. The room resembled those of most Chinese physicians or herbalists; it was quaint, and decorated with charts depicting the nervous system, muscular system and human skeletal structure. Acupuncture needles and glass bulbs were on a shelf to his left. Wooden cabinets with multiple small drawers lined the walls, filled no doubt with various herbs, healing plants and other medicines. Kwai appeared to be a sensible, educated man, but not an ordinary one. There was something extraordinary about him, something Sung Ji sensed but couldn’t explain.
“I can’t concede to superstition,” said the samurai. “Ghosts and spirits…do such things exist? To my knowledge I’ve never seen a ghost or demon.”
Kwai stoked his long, thin white beard, as if in silent contemplation before he spoke; “And how would you know that? Do you think they wear banners or signs? One cannot see the wind, yet it moves the limbs and stirs the leaves of the trees. We feel it, though it is invisible, and can see its effects. We can’t see the air, yet breathe it unceasingly, for without it we can’t exist. We can’t see the Creator, yet we see the result of His handiwork all around us.”
“Rumor has it,’ said the Korean, “this specter is responsible for many deaths. Travelers are afraid to use Chiang’s toll bridge after dusk, as they say she haunts that place.”
“She is connected to that bridge”, said Kwai. “How or why I don’t know. She seems attracted to that place by a powerful, overwhelming anxiety. Her sorrow is intense and I feel she is seeking retribution…or deliverance. Wherever it is she dwells, she has no conception of ‘time’; she simply sleeps. If she reveals herself it is because ‘awareness’ awakens her: an awareness of something amiss; a disturbance in the balance or harmony of this temporal plane. As for those who perished after having seen her, look closely into it. None were killed directly by that phantom. They brought about their own destruction through guilt or fear. It was due to a guilty conscience or karma. It was their Fate, earned by their evil deeds and actions. Each soul is rewarded or punished according to their merits. Heaven repays good with good and evil with evil. It is the unwritten law of karma. Having lived in this world until now, doing what you do, I am amazed you didn’t know that.”
“I knew it,” declared Sung Ji, “but like many others I need to be reminded from time to time.”
Kwai smiled knowingly, paused for a sip of tea and then continued. Sung Ji patiently listened to every detail of the wizard’s discourse. He spoke as plainly about mystical things as ordinary people would speak of the weather. But Kwai was not ordinary. Something about the diminutive healer told the Korean he was sincere and his judgment could be trusted: he had a ‘gift’. Though they had just met, Sung Ji felt as if he had known him a lifetime. Too, there was something otherworldly about him; he had a perceptible aura that could not be seen, but sensed. The samurai was inclined to believe him. After all, he had already told him things concerning himself that the seer could not have simply known.
Sung Ji’s introspection did not go unnoticed; “You seem to be a thinking man.” Said Kwai. “Above all else, what do you seek?”
“Clarity,” replied the Korean matter-of-factly.
“That requires a refining of the senses,” said Kwai. “As for me, I’ve learned to sense the gathering of clouds, the rise and fall of the waves, the coming and going of the tides and the breeze when it is no more than a whisper.” Noting Sung Ji’s reaction, the wizard smiled. “That is what others will tell you when asked about old Kwai. While I possess skills that ordinary men and women do not, I am no magician. What talents I have I use to help others. In my effort to help you now, there is something of importance you should know, something I’m compelled to say. Your karma is somehow connected to that of this troubled sprite. How or why I can’t say, but this I know; her solution lies with you, and the door to freedom that you seek can only be opened by her.”
Sung Ji was confused. ‘Just what could that mean’, he wondered; how could his Destiny be connected to a lost soul in China? Was the doorway of which Kwai spoke a passageway that led to death, where once having entered a mortal would be finally free of the cares and woes of this world? If that were so, if his death came because of this lost spirit, then so be it. He did not fear death; it was the price one paid for having lived in the first place and as a warrior was something he learned to accept long ago. But spirits…that was the ‘Unknown’, of which most people had a healthy fear. Momentarily lost in reflection, he unconsciously gave voice to his thoughts; “…spirits…the supernatural…” his words trailed off just before he became aware of Kwai staring at him inquisitively. Addressing the shaman, he said; “This thing called Fate…there are times when I wonder if it indeed exists…if there truly is such a thing.”
“Times you say,” echoed Kwai. “What times?”
“Moments of weariness…or weakness I suppose,” replied the Korean.
“Ah, that’s natural,” offered the Chinese. “There are times when I wonder, because of my distinctive talents, whether I’ve been blessed by Heaven…or cursed. Wondering is a waste of time and energy. As for Fate; those things which may or may not be ordained…by employing wisdom, self-restraint and proper action, an individual may change the outcome of what has been set into motion, and alter or direct their Destiny.”
The samurai was silent, carefully reflecting on the shaman’s words. Kwai studied him a moment, then continued. “You carry a heavy burden. Though you may hide it well from others you cannot hide it from yourself, nor from me. Your expertise is combat and the sword, but one cannot solve spiritual matters with weapons of war. There is, however, a man whose path you will cross; your martial skills will be required and tested at that time. Before your task is completed you will learn to embrace the ‘stillness of the storm’. Only then will the truth of your Destiny be revealed. Be content for now to know that your Destinies, yours and hers, are intertwined.”

Many in the Jade Teahouse gasped when the stranger said those words. The little town of Tsukimi was like most others populated by superstitious individuals who blamed every calamity on bad luck or the actions of others, as if they themselves had nothing whatsoever to do with it. At that moment a woman in the crowd stammered… “I recall…that man, Ahn Sung Ji, was here not long ago; two or three years past it was.”
“I’ve already said that,” voiced an impatient man in the crowded room. “He was chasing those three criminals; Miyamoto and his cohorts.”
“There were strange happenings after that,” said another. “The woodsman and his daughter…”
“The sakura (cherry) blossoms were blood red that year, falling like teardrops just three days after they died,” interrupted an inebriated farmer. “That never happened before or since. I saw her face once, in that tree when tending the gravesite.”
“The girl was seen often after her death,” stammered an elderly woman. “Even in the light of day, she was seen by the stream, and in the forest, walking as if in a daze. Now people here avoid the mountain and those woods, even when it is time for moon viewing.”
“I saw her face in that tree…” yelled the drunken farmer, louder this time.
“That’s enough!” bellowed the landlord, who could easily yell louder than anyone else, no doubt coming from years of experience operating a teahouse and pub. “Don’t speak of it!” he commanded. All eyes turned toward him. “We took an oath. All of us agreed never to speak of it again.”
“Hai,” said a woman. “Things have been quiet for almost a year now. Don’t talk of the past. It may tempt Heaven and bring us worse luck.”
Jubai had been quietly sitting, brooding over his sake while the others were talking among themselves. “Monkeys…” he snorted in contempt.
Finally the landlord insisted. “Let the man continue his story.”
The stranger in the corner was quiet while those assembled gossiped, sipping his drink and ignoring what he considered empty-headed prattle. In fact he toyed with the thought of letting Jubai finish the tale; a perfect scenario of the blind leading the blind. He thought to himself; ‘One dog barks at nothing, all others bark with him’.
Once they were quiet, however, he continued his narrative… “Having listened intently to Kwai’s revelations Sung Ji asked if the seer had any advice. “Only this,” said Kwai. “Remember that in this life all conditions are temporary. Fearlessly follow your heart. Be it sun, shadow or storm, face life and your Fate boldly. Even a moment’s hesitation or a single doubt can tip the scales. Success or failure will depend on the strength of your spirit and mind. I believe your countrymen have a proverb; ‘Jung shin cha-re-yo’ (Wake up)! Be alert. Stay focused.”
Sung Ji was surprised to hear a Chinese man speak Korean words. He wondered where he had learned that old phrase, but didn’t ask. ‘Truly’, he thought again, ‘Kwai was no ordinary man’.

As the samurai bid farewell to Kwai, not far away, beneath a rising moon a lone horseman slowly approached the sealed city gates. From his posture he appeared weary, perhaps having ridden a long distance. The horse upon which he rode held its head low, as if fatigued, and moved with an unsteady gait. The night winds, although strong enough to carry leaves and dried bits of grass along the ground, did little to dispel the evening mists that methodically crept in at twilight. One of the two guards at the gate hailed the rider to stop as he neared. Few came to the city after dark, so the guardsmen were wary, spears in hand, ready for the slightest hint of trouble. The one who first saw the stranger approached him cautiously, keeping what he considered a safe distance between himself and the rider. After speaking to him briefly, he signaled his companion to open the smaller latch-door in one of the twin massive gates. “You can enter,” he said to the horseman. As the horse moved forward the guard, noting the blood on its right rear flank, spoke… “Wait! Your steed appears injured.”
The rider pulled back on the reins, and then raised his right arm, the hand of which held a short leather crop. “He is stubborn at times,” the stranger declared. “At the toll bridge earlier he refused to cross. I had to persuade him.”
The guard was somber. Like many others who lived in the region, he had heard tales of the haunted bridge. He thought about asking the horseman if he had seen anything strange there, but then realized he didn’t really want to know; ‘Let sleeping dogs lay…’ he reasoned. Too, some innate sense told him the rider was one accustomed to having his way, and perhaps if confronted directly would be difficult to deal with. “Go on with you then,” said the guard. “But keep this in mind, ours is a city of law. Tread lightly while here.”
The rider, quiet as the grave, did not so much as look at the spearman, but prompted the horse to move through the portal in morbid silence. The guards watched as he was slowly swallowed by blackness. “He’s an odd one,” said the man who had unlatched the door.
“Yes,” said the other with an air of uneasiness. “He gives me an uncomfortable feeling. Perhaps we shouldn’t have let him enter.”
Both men flinched when the heavy door slammed shut, startled by the abrupt sound breaking the gloom of the fog-laden night. Finally one of them spoke; “I could use some rice wine…”
The other faced his comrade and, eye-to-eye, a moment of silence passed between them. Suddenly they burst into laughter. The tension in the air faded as the pair returned to the business of watching the road leading to the city. Overhead dark, ominous windswept clouds began to blot out the moon’s meager light, as if heralding impending doom. The guards looked at the sky, then each other, momentarily breaking out anew in laughter.
The horseman, meanwhile, made his way through the dimly lit streets and shadow-haunted alleyways, pausing the moment he found what he was looking for. Stopping the horse before a building he eyed the sign above the door. The twin dragons pictured were discernable enough, but he couldn’t read the Chinese characters. Still, he was certain it was a place where he could quench his thirst. Anyone else would have first found a stable for the lame horse, but Miyamoto had no concern for the animal. After all, he laughed inwardly as the thought occurred to him; he had stolen the beast from an official in the last city in which he had worn out his welcome.


CHAPTER 5

As Miyamoto immersed himself in the best ‘spirits’ the Twin Dragons provided, two kilometers away a different kind of spirit found herself possessed by an uncontrollable rage. On the night shrouded, abandoned toll bridge stood Asako Chan surrounded by an intense, rapidly swirling blue mist, now tinged with rose red hues. In her desperate mind she kept repeating the same words, over and over: ‘It was he…It was he...It was he!!!’
The mist turned blood red as her anger increased, becoming a maelstrom that swirled faster and faster, simultaneously rising until her spectral form was completely hidden. Earlier, she had been pulled back from a brief Peace of nothingness to sudden awareness: an awareness that shocked her senses and brought her to the point of insanity. Miyamoto had crossed the bridge at the onset of dusk, just before twilight, while she was unaware. Once aware, she managed to materialize just a moment before the horse on which he rode had stepped from the bridge onto the pebble-strewn road that led to the city. The outlaw never saw her, nor sensed her presence. Self-absorbed and evil as he was, at that moment blinded by anger and malice he could not sense anything related to the spiritual realm. Earlier when he reached the toll bridge, the horse he had stolen hesitated, refusing to cross, infuriated Miyamoto to the point of mercilessly beating the animal with a hard leather crop while consistently digging his heals into the horse’s sides. Finally, it’s right rear flank bleeding profusely, the beast reluctantly moved forward, limping as it made its way across the oaken planks. Once reaching the opposite side, as he slowly disappeared into the gathering darkness, Miyamoto was completely oblivious of Asako’s presence, her fury, or of her burning eyes glaring at his back.
It was the sudden knowledge of him being there, accompanied by the awareness that he carried something belonging to her that propelled her into the worst rage she had ever experienced. She sensed he had the locket her father had given her; which held a small portrait of her mother, hand painted by Toshima. Her mind raced back to that other time and place: she recalled the miniature painting was a replica of a life-sized portrait her father had done of her mother before their wedding. When her mother died, the smaller portrait was his last painting; “Artists create from their hearts and spirits,” he told her. “When your mother died my heart and spirit were broken. I used the last of what I had to make that picture for the locket. Wearing it around your neck, your mother and I will always be close to your heart. As she loved you more than life itself, through the locket she will always be with you.” Thinking of that, and of how Miyamoto pulled the locket from her neck while attempting to assault her stirred uncontrollable emotions. Her shock and disbelief left her rigid and motionless, unable to conceive of what to do next. ‘Had the world been twisted completely inside out? How could any of this be…’ she thought… ‘How could he have that locket? Isn’t it enough that he and his men killed father, assaulted me and drove me to my death? How could Heaven allow such an evil man to go on living, hurting innocent people and beasts’? As she watched the horse limp into the darkness, these thoughts plagued her consciousness, driving her closer to complete despair and madness than she had been since first becoming aware of her own death.
Others were also unaware of Miyamoto crossing the bridge or of his presence in the area. While those events transpired Ahn Sung Ji was conversing with Kwai. As far as he knew, the outlaw who escaped him nearly three years ago was still running amok in Japan. So while others, like the dark stranger, could give finer details to his version of the story Jubai the Dreamer had begun in the Jade Teahouse, there were yet some details neither man could reveal to the attentive villagers who were listening, spellbound, as the tale unfolded. There was no one who knew Asako was there, on the bridge, as Miyamoto reached the opposite side. No one who could tell others what she was feeling, with the exception of Kwai. The wizard had the ‘gift’ of knowing things that were beyond the understanding of ordinary men and women. How he knew, or how he came by his power of psychic perception, was beyond his comprehension. He only knew he had a ‘gift’ and was compelled to make use of it to help others, as that was the only good reason he imagined he had such a gift in the first place.
The storyteller in the shadows paused to take another drink from his cup, then continued his saga as the Jade Teahouse patrons gave their full attention… “Miles from the city, and the Twin Dragons pub where Miyamoto was becoming drunk and surly, Sung Ji was returning from his visit with the Chinese mystic. On his way back to the city, he followed a different path from the one that earlier led him to Kwai’s modest home. The alternate route took the swordsman into the hills just east of the city and Chiang’s castle. The moon had risen, shedding its blue-white lunar light on the mist shrouded ground. The mild, steady breeze was cooling to the skin, the air fresh and exhilarating. It was a good night for a stroll, although in the darkness he could not appreciate what he imagined was a pleasant view. The landscape through which he walked was dotted with small trees that became larger the further he went. Soon he could see the twin towers of a huge edifice rising above the treetops to his right. Obviously some distance away, the immense structure appeared to be a castle or perhaps a temple or pagoda; he wasn’t quite certain. The hills of the steep terrain through which he now trekked, like the trees, were larger than when he first left the main road. Somewhat hidden by those hills, towering trees, and the darkness of night, the tiered building seemed ominous and forbidding, almost threatening. That would have been enough to dissuade an ordinary man from further investigation, but Sung Ji was not an ordinary man. In his travels, no matter where he happened to be, he always found time to study the people, their culture, customs, art and architecture. The building beyond the trees intrigued him. In fact, the samurai believed it demanded his attention, thus he was compelled to have a closer look.
Passing just beyond the trees he entered a bamboo forest, some of the stalks reaching more than twenty or thirty feet above him; it was hard to discern in the fog shrouded darkness. The bamboo ended at the eight-foot high, handcrafted stone and mortar wall that surrounded the buildings and grounds. What at first sight appeared to be a single structure he discovered was in fact one of a series of buildings. The largest one with the tallest tower was no doubt a temple. Not wishing to enter the grounds like a thief he walked along the outside wall until he discovered the torii and gateway, above which he saw a sign made up of Chinese characters that read; ‘Temple Moon’. When he passed beneath the torii and beyond the unsecured gate, in spite of the darkness, he could see the grounds appeared to have been kept clean of debris. The steps leading to the landing and doors of the main building were clean, as if having recently been swept. Close to the temple he could just barely see what he imagined to be gravestones, which was common for monasteries or holy places.
Although there were signs of maintenance, the place appeared deserted. No light showed through the rice paper of the windows of the main building and the ornate front doors were locked and secured. Sung Ji pulled the leather strap of the announcement bell three times without result; no one came. Either those who maintained the site were sound sleepers, or perhaps it was not their habit to answer the bell at such a late hour. Most shrines or temples, he reasoned, were open to visitors at more respectable hours. The time being late, and the samurai not certain just how far he was from the city, he decided the wisest thing to do was find a place he could lay his cloak on the ground and rest. The sound of the breeze stirring the slender leaves of the bamboo was pleasing to his ears and relaxing. ‘I should sleep well,’ he imagined. In the light of day he could see more, better appreciate the beauty of the temple buildings and grounds, and perhaps even find a well where he could quench his thirst.
By the time Sung Ji finished inspecting the grounds of the Moon Temple, and was preparing to sleep, miles away in the city at the Twin Dragons pub Miyamoto already successfully managed to alienate a handful of patrons. After touching a serving girl inappropriately, and eventually the landlord’s daughter, he found himself facing the points of at least five swords and a trio of daggers. Having drawn his own sword he backed his way to the exit, and once there began screaming and swinging the blade erratically before turning and crashing headlong through the door, tearing it from its hinges. Once outside he kept running, leaving the lame, stolen horse behind. Having absolutely no idea where he was going he rushed into the night-darkened streets, eventually turning into an even darker alleyway in an attempt to escape the group of angry, sword-wielding men at his back. For an instant he managed to elude them, until, running blindly he tripped and fell into a makeshift bamboo shelter, startling and awakening the man inside. The sleeper awoke, yelling curses: “Get out of my house…” his voice echoed as Miyamoto scrambled to his feet and continued his retreat, fired on by the approaching sounds of the men who had chased him from the Twin Dragons. Eventually putting a couple of hundred yards between himself and his pursuers, Miyamoto managed to gain a second wind as he heard the previously sleeping beggar shout; “He went that way…He smashed my house…!”
As the inebriated outlaw picked up the pace, stumbling haphazardly along, he was oblivious of the old woman seated on her second story balcony, stroking her fat Persian cat and laughing with glee as she eyed the chase. Miyamoto, so intent on eluding pursuers and bent on escape could care less about his surroundings if others observed his frenzied flight. Running headlong through the streets and just as quickly running out of breath, his panic ridden mind reasoned the best thing to do was find a good hiding place. Just a few feet ahead he spied the mouth of another alley. Reaching the site he made an abrupt turn into the darkened corridor between the buildings. Running full speed he managed to cover less than twenty feet before briskly slamming into a brick wall, almost knocking himself out. As he lay there in the darkness slipping into unconsciousness he was completely hidden from his pursuers as they passed by the entrance of the dead end alley he had chosen in his flight. While the sound of their running feet and angry shouts echoed into the night and distance, the drunken outlaw spiraled into the merciful shelter of a deep sleep.