Bryce Hara-Crockford

A mysterious illness struck the valley, casting an agoraphobic mania over its victims. As more farmers withdrew themselves from the outside world, crops began to wither, and a growing number of families never again saw the light of day; and by the time the hermetic shaman—the kannagi—had made it down from the mountains, the village had arrived at the brink of ruin. The afflicted were all the same: malnourished, averse to daylight, resembling an unholy cloister. The air was damp and warmer than one could expect in December. The mountains above were blanketed in winter snow, and it was common to go all week without cloudy weather up there. Yet, down here, one felt at odds with the times, as if this place was flipped on its axis and received the tsuyu rains much too early. Sunlight here was scarce, with consistent drizzle that muddied the path and dampened one’s sense of the hour. Rings that hung from the metal tip of the shaman’s staff jangled as she walked, announcing her solitary procession; and those villagers still with their senses emerged from behind their closed doors to who had come to bring hope.

When the unafflicted villagers asked the shaman to explain what was happening, she did not bother responding, for she had never seen anything like this before. Instead, she continued deeper into the village, her bare feet wading through a thin layer of water that covered the path. In the water’s reflection, a bird circled above her head. It was black like a crow, but larger with a fleshy face and a feathery white collar, a creature unlike anything she had ever seen before. Neither the trees nor bamboo thickets had anything to say—as if they were mere props; hallow and dead. And when the breeze passed by it murmured in a foreign tongue, not with curses or malignance but in the manner of a meandering wanderer, wistful for fading memories of home. Much like the breeze, the shaman wondered where she was, for this valley was no longer in the land of Wa. She followed the mysterious bird as it came down to perch on a thatched hut situated on the incline of a hill. A narrow brook separated it from the other dwellings along the path, and it would have gone unnoticed to the shaman if not for the bird. Sensing the answer lay within, she crossed over the water and ascended towards the front entrance. She was careful not to fall on the slickened path, using her staff for balance. Each deliberate step placed on sodden earth awakened a growing feeling of déjà vu. That, for all the odd goings and sensory riddles, the hut itself and the earth beneath it were fully recognised by her mind’s eye.

Light was restricted to a single step inside the hut. It was nigh impossible to see anything, but the shaman made out the images of three figures: a father, mother and small daughter. They did not react to the shaman’s presence, though otherwise acted normally; the father prepared fresh arrows for his bow, the mother mended torn cloth and the daughter played with her doll. A muted glow emanated from the central hearth where a surviving ember beckoned a saviour. The shaman stepped further inside and announced her intrusion. The parents took no notice, but the girl was drawn to the clattering sound of her staff rings. They made eye contact, allowing the shaman to draw closer, sitting beside her. She asked if the family was ill. The girl glanced at her parents—thinking—and shook her head. The shaman caught a glimpse of the doll clutched tightly in the girl’s hands. Red fabric was used for its face and limbs, with white markings that represented face paint applied under its diamond-shaped eyes. It wore a draping garment that was made of a coarser thread and decorated in geometric distortions. The shaman could not tell from which animal the thread came but recognised the use of real human hair woven onto its head. Tangled threads of yellow and white wrapped around its neck and shoulders—perhaps representing jewellery.

‘Where did you get this?’ the shaman asked, ‘It’s quite extraordinary.’

The little girl looked at her little doll, then to her parents again. The shaman followed her gaze, realising that both parents were now watching. A thin slither of smoke wisp dithered above the hearth between them—the desperate ember was dead.

‘She found the doll,’ said the mother.

‘Where, may I ask?’

‘…You’re the kannagi from Tateyama. We are not ill, as you can see, and your time is wasted here.’

A wind entered, snatching away the smoke as it whirled around the hut, tugging at the shaman to leave. She stood, bowing her head as she excused herself. But a streak of sunlight escaped the clouds above, reaching deep inside the hut, illuminating the central hearth. The family covered their eyes, blinded by the glow, and only the shaman could see the withered chrysanthemum flower where the ember once lay. A sign from the goddess. The shaman took from her large sleeves a demon mask and adorned it. She took the sakaki branch fastened to her sash, holding it in her right hand and her staff in the left. She began to chant and dance the kagura, waving the sakaki in large sweeping motions while shaking the staff vigorously; its rattling chimes beckoning the goddess—the kami; its reflective metal cascading more sunlight inside. The family was immobilised by the unceasing light, and the shaman fell deeper and deeper into a trance as she spun around the hearth, awakening a fire around her, until finally the light had unmasked the shadowy illusion at play. She fell before the fire and breathed heavily. She removed her mask and saw a hut ransacked. A husband standing over his dead wife with head in hands. Her throat was slit—the bloodied knife clutched firmly in her hands by rigor mortis. Both their bodies were beaten and scarred, and one could only guess what they had been through. What they might have done to each other. And the child? She had not changed, nor had she moved. She and the doll were the only constants, still masked by shadow. The shaman reached for her, but the girl stepped back. Unwilling to escape the illusion.

‘Inti shall not interfere,’ whispered the girl, though her lips did not move.

‘Leave this child alone, demon.’

‘She comes willingly to uku pacha.’

‘Let me speak with her,’ she demanded, brandishing her staff. But a fowl cackle reverberated from the doll and shadow began to swallow the girl into a black abyss; a void so deep and so dark that not even the firelight could reach. Gone was the little girl and her doll. The shaman grasped the air in front of her but there was only darkness. Only the sound of rain and the monstrous caw of the strange bird on the roof. Tragedy hung in the air.

Still holding onto hope for the victims of this demon scourge, the shaman focused her powers on the fire, centring herself back towards the light. Time was no concern, for this demon had retreated to a place beyond it. She chanted again to the goddess, calling upon her strength, falling back into a trance. Hours seemed to pass. The journey was vast and unending. She saw visions of her childhood—visions of the land of Wa ravaged by clan wars. First came the smell of burning crop, then the sound of clashing metal. But when her mind’s eye opened to see the memory, she was in another war and another time. The people looked strange to her, screaming and yelling in a distant tongue. They bludgeoned each other with serrated swords shaped like paddles and wore the same garments as the doll. Her eyes found the light, drawn up to the sky. Towering over the battlefield stood The Andes mountains, and above its peaks were two suns: the goddess and another called Inti. The goddess ordered her shaman to welcome Inti, for only he had the power to counter this oni; this supaya; this demon. Upon reaching out and taking hold of Inti, she saw only white light. The conflict within had vanished. She was back in the hut, but there was a shimmering glow all around. The girl was playing with the doll, now smiling. Her parents were nowhere in sight.

The shaman approached the girl by the hearth, sitting beside her once again. Now fully illuminated, it was clear to see the signs of violence all over the child’s arms and legs, just like her parents. Her left eye was also blinded and white.

‘Is that your doll?’ asked the shaman.

The girl nodded with pride, ‘She’s my friend.’

‘I had a doll when I was your age…How can she be your friend when she hurts you so?’

‘It was mama and papa who did it! Mio didn’t—she’d never! Mio and I are friends.’

‘Your parents did this?’

‘They can’t anymore. Mio said we’re going far away.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘…With the others,’ muttered the girl, a hint of apprehension in her voice.

‘And what is your name, little one?’

‘Haru.’

‘You don’t look well, Haru. You’re pale and thin. Are you not cold? Not hungry?’ pressed the shaman. Haru continued to play with the doll, though much less animated than before.

‘Don’t you wish to stay with the living?’ continued the shaman.

‘I can’t go back to mama and papa. Oh, please don’t make me go back!’ shouted Haru.

‘Then come with me. I can take you up the mountain where the sunlight shines and the snow glistens.’

‘…I’m—I’m too tired.’

‘I will carry you if necessary. For I too know the horrors a child can face,’ she said, revealing the torture scars on her arms and torso, ‘Life does not end here, you see. Nightmares end when we are ready to wake up.’

Haru tilted her head down to the doll Mio, feeling it’s soft fabric face. She was too young to make sense through her thoughts—through her words. Yet, slowly but surely, she began to realise the fear within her. To understand how afraid she was of even Mio and what the doll had done. She was afraid of the dead that Mio had collected, almost as much as the wrath of her parents and the horror of clan fighting.

‘Haru? Will you come with me?’ repeated the shaman, inviting her with an outstretched hand. Haru did not know the shaman, but she felt that this figure was unlike anyone she had met. And so, despite her hesitance, she found herself accepting the shaman’s offer and held her hand.

‘Kannagi,’ she began, pointing to the staff, ‘Can I hold the stick?’

The shaman smiled—at her innocence and to such great relief. ‘Of course you can,’ She said and led them towards the hearth. ‘But first, let us be done with this curse.’

Haru understood. She hugged the doll and kissed it, before dropping her little Mio into the fire. The demonic toy ignited quickly, seeping blood as it melted away. It released the quiet yet intense cries of a thousand souls who had met violent ends. The demon was no more. Upon stepping outside, the shimmering light of Inti dissipated. The bird had vanished, along with the clouds. Gradually, more and more villagers emerged from their bewilderment, taking in sunlight for the first time in a long while. Haru only made it a few steps outside before she fainted. The shaman held on to the poor girl, carrying her as promised.

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Bryce is an aspiring writer living in Brisbane. He comes from a scriptwriting background but recently started writing stories in a more traditional format. Bryce is drawn to writing with symbolism and prefers not to worry about realism, stemming from his love of new-wave cinema styles. His goal is to write meaningful stories while avoiding an air of preachiness. Other than writing, he is currently studying psychology and would like to pursue a career in creative therapies.

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