“If You Need Her”
Session One:
Miroku’s Journey
I.
“I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I’m dying
Are the best I’ve ever had.
I find it hard to tell you
I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It’s a very very mad world.”
- Gary Jules, “Mad World”
“If you need her
You should be there.
Go home.”
- Barenaked Ladies, “Go Home”
Sesshoumaru’s travels these days brought him not far behind his brother. He hadn’t meant it, wanting to be the first to fight Naraku. He had, after all, nearly defeated this Sesshoumaru. Such an act required a retribution unheard of in these lands, and he would be damned if he would allow a worthless hanyou to exact the revenge that Sesshoumaru would make so much sweeter, so much more drawn-out, so much more spectacular. He would destroy Naraku, tear him to bits for capturing him, for taking his property, and for ever thinking, even for a moment, that he had found a weakness in Sesshoumaru. And after the creature he so hated, hated even more than his brother, was scattered to dust, he would dip his hands in Naraku’s blood and write his name all over these lands, that he Sesshoumaru was undefeated and undefeatable, unsurpassed was his strength, unfathomable was his power, and insatiable was his anger. Endless was his domain, and hopeless were all those that did less but bow to his supremacy and beg for his permission to kiss the ground that might someday be trod upon by his foot.
Despite all this, his emotion did not hinder him as it did his brother. Always would Inuyasha be controlled by emotion, for only empathy allowed him to wield Tetsusaiga, and only fear allowed his youkai blood to strengthen him. For these reasons Inuyasha was weak, and though he was at times a notable adversary with his father’s sword, he would never, ever be his equal. For these reasons Inuyasha would fail to find Naraku, for his rage and impatience would surely blind him to evidence of Naraku’s whereabouts.
Sesshoumaru traveled at his own pace, usually ahead of the hanyou but sometimes behind. When his youkai senses alerted him to a strange perturbation in the aura of a place, when he sensed the slightest tinge of jaki that his brothers’ inferior senses may have missed, he would stop and investigate. He was caught off guard by Naraku’s tricks before; it would not happen again. If the flight of jaki to the northeast was a ruse, and Naraku was hiding here among Sesshoumaru’s own lands, this Sesshoumaru would have his revenge, all while his father’s shame chased another of Naraku’s puppets to the sea.
So Sesshoumaru had come to a road not far from several small human villages, following his indication of a presence of Naraku or something like him. More often than not these were nothing, but also he could smell a creature having half his blood, and he could tell that Inuyasha was no more than four days on this same road. If by some inordinate amount of luck Inuyasha came across Naraku, Sesshoumaru would reach him before Inuyasha had time to draw his blade.
Inuyasha traveled so very slow, and even more so with the humans he associated himself with.
On that thought he stopped. Before him the village loomed, and in the waning sunlight he could see humans going about their evening rituals. He could smell their food – admittedly a not unpleasant sensation – and see children being called for supper. These were children much like Rin, though far less disciplined. If a human child had addressed him as "Papa" rather than Sesshoumaru-sama, he would break its neck with a single thoughtless blow.
A slight wind ruffled the fur over his shoulder and tugged at his clothes. He turned to his right as he heard the slight ringing of metal upon metal.
There, in the meadow just outside the village, overgrown with weeds and wildflowers, a lone shakujou was planted, slanted ever so slightly to the north. It was half a kilometer from the road, but even from such a distance it was no feat for Sesshoumaru to notice the same holy staff that was carried by the houshi following Inuyasha.
He approached the staff. A human would not smell death even with his nose buried in the ground above a corpse, but Sesshoumaru could tell he was approaching a grave only a few steps from the road.
Now he stood in the trampled circle around a mound of dirt, at the head of which the staff was planted. Inuyasha, the two human females that served him, and a kitsune had spent a long time here.
At the foot of the grave he noted the offerings; fairly typical for these creatures: A picture of the houshi drawn with multicolored waxes, quite rudimentary in style, having a head much too large and arms much too wide. He held the skakujou in his left arm and was holding his right hand prominently in the air. Short yellow lines encircled the naked wrist and palm, making it abundantly and idiotically clear that the houshi was in some other place where the void Sesshoumaru had seen him use no longer existed. Anthropomorphic clouds and a sun made it obvious this was an offering from the kitsune. The picture had been tacked to a piece of wood to give it a backing, but even with this the paper was beginning to fade through exposure to the sun.
Beside the picture was an offering of food that was faring no better – inside a large tin was a mass of reeking food that he probably wouldn’t be able to identify even if it were fresh.
The last item of offering was a bundle of green cloth, the meaning of which was a mystery to Sesshoumaru.
The youkai stood there long enough to be certain there was nothing of interest here. For a brief moment he wondered what killed the human, but just as quickly he realized he cared not. It became clear to him now that the jaki he sensed was not Naraku, and he could waste no more time here.
The toe of one boot dug into the ground as he turned to leave.
The Tenseiga throbbed.
Nani?
Sesshoumaru’s hand absently grazed the hilt of the healing sword.
I would not have expected the Tenseiga to revive people so long after decay has settled in, he thought.
The same hand clasped the hilt.
I have yet to regret using the sword when it called for me. If the Tenseiga wills it, I will follow its command. Besides, this creature’s life is of no consequence to me.
He drew the sword, holding it straight above the grave. He could feel the power flowing through it, the aura of life and health that never impressed Sesshoumaru.
Tenseiga, I only wield you because you saved my life twice. It is a courtesy and a sign of respect. Do not think I enjoy wielding you, or that I feel need to follow your commands.
With great flourish he swing the sword above the grave, then plunged it deep into the ground. Beneath him he felt the strength of the Tenseiga rip through the pallbearers and other creatures of death and decay that were imperceptible to all but Sesshoumaru.
He pulled loose the sword, and already his youkai ears detected the rustle of movement beneath his feet. Even through the dirt Sesshoumaru could perceive a lack of death and rot beneath him.
So the Tenseiga reverses decay as well. I suppose that would have to be, otherwise this thing below me would be little more than bones and sinew.
The rustling below him stopped. Sesshoumaru raised an eyebrow, and after a brief pause snorted in something that, were he not a youkai, may have been annoyance.
Figures he’d be buried too deep.
The youkai lord turned to leave, but after only a few steps he heard a rumbling beneath him. He jumped aside an instant before a circle of land three meters in diameter, centered over the grave, suddenly became a sinkhole.
The hole deepened, curving ever farther into the soil, forming a crater now nearly two meters deep. Now a powerful wind formed, sucking at Sesshoumaru, pulling his clothes and hair around him. With his youkai eyes he could see past the hail of dust, see into the crater, see the black void that had drawn in wind and soil and the hand attached to it. A second hand came up from the now shallow soil and quickly wrapped a rosary around the other. The winds ceased, and an instant later the face and chest of the human burst from the grave, drawing in the first breath for days.
The human, sitting, now pulled at the sides of the hole he had formed, grabbing the shakujou that had fallen into the hole and landed near his shoulder, just outside the pull of the black void. With the shakujou he managed to push himself entirely out of the dirt that had immobilized his legs. Slowly he clawed at the sides of his now exhumed grave, pulling himself higher and higher.
Now he was eye-level with ground, resting his chin on the cliff of earth he had formed. Suddenly his face turned even whiter and he vomited.
Sesshoumaru wrinkled his nose. Such disgusting creatures are humans.
Now the human had pulled himself entirely out of his grave, his shakujou beside him, and lay on his back, breathing heavily, eyes wide with emotions Sesshoumaru did not understand and did not care to understand. The creature was dressed in the same clothes he had seen him in before, though they seemed worn and eaten with decay and filth. They were also crawling with the insects that had been consuming the human for the past few days, but clearly Sesshoumaru could hear them well before the human could feel them. Perhaps his sensations were dulled after his time outside this world, but in any case the human did realize his predicament and with a cry got to his knees, tearing at his robes, robes so worn that they came apart in shreds as he clawed at them, and soon the human was standing naked, clawing at his hair, shouting in frustration and pain and fear.
Such terribly, terribly disgusting creatures.
Now he was crying, something he knew human females did at times, and Sesshoumaru nearly sighed in exasperation, failing to believe that the Tenseiga found value in the life of something so pitiful.
I have nothing to say to this . . . thing.
Sesshoumaru turned and walked back to where he had left Rin and Jaken. The human never saw him, but even after Sesshoumaru crossed the field, crossed the road, and put a great deal of forest between him and the human, he could hear his voice. His words were strained, clearly suffering from their owner’s corpse-dry throat. Or, one should say, his word. There was only one.
“Sango.”
II.
“I can see my face slumped, with a grin
And you . . .
You’re the last thing on my mind.”
- Barenaked Ladies, “Tonight is the Night I Fell Asleep at the Wheel”
The sun drew the shadow of the man far across the field. Slowly he traced the rosary beads around his hand, the only clothed part of his body.
I was in the dark place, under the Earth. I couldn’t breathe, and when my hands were tearing at the dirt around me I felt the beads. So I pulled them loose and then. . . then my hand began to suck everything, and then all the dirt above me was gone. I started to feel scared so I wrapped the beads around my hand again and the vacuum stopped.
Where am I?
He glanced around the field, at the road behind him, and at the lights of the houses in the distance.
I’m outside a village.
He furrowed his brows.
Who am I?
He wasn’t Sango; that was certain. Sango was another person, someone he knew.
“Sango,” he whispered again, the word rolling sweetly even off his dry lips.
Sango was a girl, and a very special girl.
I love Sango.
He nodded in satisfaction. He was getting somewhere. Sango was the woman he fell in love with. Sango must have been his wife.
“I have to save Sango,” he whispered, echoing the voice in his head.
Now he was lost again. He knew why he had to save her – he loved her. But save her from what? Where was Sango?
He looked around the ground for clues. In the hole he was trapped in before he could see scattered items – some food that was clearly rotten, a picture and a bundle of cloth. He retrieved the cloth and picture and then crawled back up, sitting next to his shakujou.
The picture was of a Buddhist priest, a houshi, with the same staff that was beside him. The clothes were the same too.
That must be a picture of me. But in that picture I have nothing on my hand, while I know I have this gauntlet and rosary and black circle on my hand.
He studied his hand again, noting the protective covers that hung from the gauntlet. Realizing these were meant to cover the black hole on his hand, he adjusted them to cover his palm completely.
He set aside the picture and then brought the green bundle of cloth into his lap. As he unfolded it he realized it was an apron. It smelled very lightly of perfumes, of rain, of flowers. The scent made him happy for some reason, and he smiled though he didn’t know why.
As he unfolded the apron completely a lock of hair fell from within its folds.
He studied this hair now, straight and soft and black, bound with a white ribbon.
“Sango.”
He began to understand now. The smell was Sango. These belonged to her, and they were placed where he was buried.
I am dead.
No, that made no sense. He was clearly alive.
They thought I was dead.
Yes, that was it. Sango, his wife, thought he was dead, so she buried him.
But I’m alive.
Yes, it was a mistake. She thought she was dead, and she gave him these offerings, but he was actually alive. He was probably hurt, somehow, but he wasn’t killed. So she buried him, and left him offerings, and now she was probably in that village.
He glanced at the picture beside him.
Sango is not a good artist. Or perhaps she is just very young?
He studied the picture some more, realization suddenly striking him.
This was drawn by a child!
Sango and I have a child!
He was beaming now. Him, a father. Him, Sango, and a child. He had a family.
“My family,” he whispered, tears forming in his eyes.
He stood, wrapping the apron around him. Clearly Sango was not a large woman, because the apron would not fit him when tied correctly. He turned it sideways and wrapped it around his waist.
The fundoshi and inner kimono he wore were torn to pieces and smelled very bad besides, so he left them there. The black osode and purple kesa looked in far better shape, so he wrapped those around himself. He could find no sandals, but he probably didn’t need any. Picking up the shakujou in one hand and the lock of hair and picture in the other, he walked quickly toward the village.
Sango was waiting for him, after all.
III.
“I’ve just seen a face
I can’t forget the time or place
When we just met
She’s just the girl for me
And I want all the world to see we’ve met”
- The Beatles, “I’ve Just Seen a Face”
He didn’t get very far. In fact, the first person he saw in the village shouted for him.
“Houshi-sama!”
He glanced at her, for a moment thinking he had found Sango already, but he quickly realized he was mistaken. She appeared only a few years older than him, and was very pretty indeed, but the spark of recognition didn’t come. He couldn’t quite picture Sango in his mind, but he was sure he would know her when he saw her.
Besides, Sango wouldn’t call him “Houshi-sama.” She would call him his name.
Wait. What is my name?
He smiled as the woman ran toward him, greeting her kindly as a houshi should.
“Houshi-sama, what happened to you?”
He heard the question, and yet he didn’t. At very least, he could not answer it.
“Where is my wife?” he asked. "Where is Sango?”
She seemed startled. “The woman you were traveling with? Houshi-sama, I don’t know.”
“Traveling with me? Where?”
“Houshi-sama, I wouldn’t know. You and your friends came through the village. I saw you go back toward the forest to fight the youkai, but after that I never saw any of you. We were afraid you were all killed, but the youkai never returned. So we thought you had simply fled the village before we could reward you for saving us."
“Youkai!” the houshi shouted. “We fight youkai?”
He had only vaguely noticed the woman’s confusion and growing alarm as the two of them stood in the street just outside her home. Suddenly she gasped.
“Houshi-sama! You lost your memory!”
She sounded happy with being able to realize the lone houshi’s predicament, but quickly turned sorrowful.
“Forgive me, Houshi-sama. I didn’t mean to sound happy in your misfortune.”
“My memory,” he whispered. That should have been obvious to him, but only by hearing the words could he fit a few more pieces of this puzzle into place.
“Yes!” he said. “I was fighting the youkai, and I was hurt very badly. I must have lost my memory then, and been knocked unconscious. They thought I was dead, so they buried me. But I was alive, and when I came to they were gone.”
The woman clasped her hands to her mouth. “But . . . then you’ve been crawling around for four days!”
Her hands were around his waist now, guiding him to her home.
“Forgive me for keeping you on the street so long, Houshi-sama,” she said, nearly crying. “Forgive a stupid woman for letting the man who saved her village stand dying just outside her door.”
His inarticulate protests went unheeded, though they did draw a few neighbors to stare. When he turned to them to apologize for the scene and his unrespectable attire he felt his head swim, and when he next opened his eyes he found himself lying down in a hut, the same woman leaning above him and dabbing his forehead with a moist cloth.
“Forgive a poor widow for her lack of hospitality,” she whispered to him, “but I’ll give you what I can, and I won’t let you leave this place without dinner, a bath, and a decent kimono. Anything you ask of me is yours.”
He smiled. “This simple servant of Buddha thanks you.”
“Rest now, Houshi-sama. I’ll have rice and fish ready for you soon.”
He closed his eyes and felt sleep wash over him. A nap on this side of the ground was pleasant indeed.
IV.
“Leave the road and memorize
This life that passed before my eyes
Nothing is going my way”
- REM, "Find the River”
He rested only for an hour or so, only long enough for the lamps around the hut to require lighting. The scent of dinner woke him, and it felt to him like food was yet another thing he had forgotten. Though his own memory may be lost, that of his tongue was not. He was ravenous.
She must have expected this, for the woman only gave him small portions of rice, tea, and fish at a time. Even though he knew he would be terribly sick if he ate everything at once, he probably wouldn’t have been able to stop himself without her.
“Forgive me, but could I know the name of my savior?” he asked.
She blushed. “The woman who lives to serve you is Sukui.”
“Arigato, Sukui-sama.”
She brought both hands to her mouth to hide her smile.
He ate an incredible deal of food, but it was spread out over hours so that his stomach gave no complaint. After putting away the dishes, Sukui took a lantern and a bundle of clothes and led him to the river where she fetched her water.
He placed the clothes near the bank and waited for the bobbing light of the lamp to be far enough from him to be respectable. It was scandalous enough to be here bathing with an unmarried woman in shouting distance, but he hoped if she was far enough away it would appear coincidence that they might here at the same night. He cared little for his own privacy, but the honor of a woman was something he would not tarnish.
Now that he could see the lamp no more he stripped off the tattered robe and apron. The latter he folded very, very carefully and set on a rock so that it would not touch soil.
He bathed, scrubbing the dirt from his hair with sand from the beach, and when he looked up at the full moon he suddenly found himself very lonely. Sukui said he had friends that traveled with him and Sango. He wondered where they were and what they were doing. Were they thinking of him now?
He wondered, was Sango staring at the same moon, yearning for him as he yearned for her? Did she cry for him when they buried him, or was she strong and silent? Was she a miko, soft and gentle, or was she a taiji-ya, strong and fit, the leader of their group?
Did she have long, raven hair as he imagined? Were her eyes dark and brown like the ageless forests? Was her smile the sun of a thousand summers, and did she fit in his arms just so?
He sighed wistfully. I’ll ask Sukui when I return to her hut. She saw all of them earlier. She will tell me what Sango looks like.
He walked back to shore, drying himself with the towel. He glanced through the clothes Sukui had, the clothes of her deceased husband.
I’ll make an offering to him tomorrow. A very heartfelt one, for being blessed with a wife so kind and honorable.
He frowned.
The least I can do for the dead man whose fundoshi I’m wearing.
He finished the folds of the loincloth and pulled on the black kimono she had given him. It lacked the flared sleeves of his priestly robe, but it was long and wide, giving him the same freedom of movement. He could tell by the cut it was made to fit a larger man tightly.
He felt a bit uncomfortable without an inner kimono, but clearly he was not going to ask her for anything after giving him so much. He picked up his purple cloth again, studying it. It was torn and dirty, but certainly wearable. He tied up his new kimono to his thighs and washed the cloth in the river. It would be fit to wear when it dried tomorrow.
As he turned back to the clothing left on the beach, his eyes caught movement in the moonlight. A brief sense of panic ran through him.
The feeling died quickly as he realized that what he had seen was Sukui’s hair as she crept away from a hiding place in the bushes.
She must have been watching me the entire time.
He sighed.
Well, there’s not much I can do about that. She doesn’t know I saw her, and there’s no reason to say so. I’ll keep it to myself; consider it payment for the clothes and food.
The houshi squeezed the cloth dry and draped it over his shoulder.
When I heard that noise, I very nearly grabbed my shakujou and prepared myself to fight. It felt like instinct, and if it were youkai I feel like I would have known how to defeat it. Maybe I am a youkai fighter. Perhaps a good one.
He bundled up his damaged kimono and Sango’s apron. The latter he held very tightly to his chest, fingers digging deep into the cloth, trying to suck out the last bits of Sango’s essence in their folds, needing her desperately.
I will take my leave in the morning. I will beg for money if I must, but I will continue on the road Sango has taken. Sukui said they were four days ahead of me; I’m sure with dedication I can catch up to them before the sun sets twice.
Bless me with your patience, Buddha, for I have none until my Sango is returned to me!
V.
“I wonder how I look inside your mind.
Tell me, have I scored with your panel of judges tonight?
Can you see me? Do you hear what I say to you?
When I look inside you I see something about myself,
Something I never knew.”
- Caroline’s Spine, "Inside Your Mind”
His dreams were odd, involving fights with strange youkai. His friends were there, and he knew they included hanyou and kitsune. Sango was there, and in his dreams she did have dark hair, and was dressed all in scandalous, form-fitting black. But their faces blurred whenever he looked at them, and when he in desperation grabbed at Sango’s wrist to bring her close to him, hoping if she was close enough he could focus and see her face, she brought up a hand and slapped him quite hard.
He awoke.
Blinking, the houshi looked around the hut. There was only one room, but a hanging cloth split the hut in two to protect Sukui’s decency while they slept on futons.
With a gasp he recognized the form kneeling above him.
Sukui was there in a kimono so thin and light that she might as well have been naked. Moonlight streamed through it from the window and highlighted the curves of her ample chest. Seeing him awake, she brought a hand to his face.
“Houshi-sama,” she whispered.
“Sukui-sama,” he gasped. “What are you doing?”
She smiled shyly, leaning over him. Though he didn’t mean to see it, the spit in her kimono revealed flesh between neck and navel and made it clear she was otherwise quite naked.
“My husband Noriko died in a farming accident a year ago, and I haven’t had the company of another man since. He looked a lot like you, you know. Shorter, wider, but the same face.” Her thumb rubbed against his lips. “Same beautiful, boyish face.”
When her hand began to trace the folds of his kimono he caught it firmly. His expression of anger startled her, as did the other hand that grabbed her shoulder and pushed her away.
He scooted across the floor, sitting opposite her with his hands hanging loosely over his knees.
“Houshi-sama,” she whispered, more desperate than before.
“And yet that name means nothing to you,” he muttered. He saw her tremble before him, as if near tears, and immediately made his tone softer.
“I am a servant of Buddha, and as such I must seek peace and prolong the happiness of those around me.”
She clasped her hands, her eyes hopeful.
“But,” he said, afraid he couldn’t stress the word enough, “I must at the same time avoid petty desire, most hurtful desire, for failing to do so leads to great suffering.”
“Houshi-sama,” she begged.
He sighed.
“I guess I don’t know where that came from. I don’t understand half of what I just said, really.”
Again, the hopeful look.
“The reason I can’t do this is because I am already married. I care not for any other woman.”
He leaned toward her, taking her hand, his eyes seeing only her face.
“No matter how beautiful, how wonderful, how perfect you may be, you are not my Sango,” he whispered. “I can’t do her wrong, Sukui-sama. I’m not even able to.”
“But,” she whispered, “but you asked me already. Why change your mind now?”
“Nani?”
“The first thing you said to me,” she whispered. “I saw you approach the village. You asked me then, but I said no, because you were with that woman at the time.” She pressed her fists to the floor in exasperation. “I’m here now; she’s not. I can do it, Houshi-sama.”
His eyes narrowed. “What did I ask you then?”
“To bear your child, Houshi-sama!”
His eyes widened. Suddenly he was laughing.
“Houshi-sama?”
He shook his head. “I’ll give you credit, Sukui-sama, for being such a trickster. But I assure you even without memory of that day I’m sure I couldn’t have said such a thing.”
She seemed about to argue, but a glare from him was enough to quiet her. She nodded cautiously, wrapping her kimono around her, escaping to the opposite side of the partition.
I will leave in the morning before she awakes. It would be best that way. I will leave this place and go north. Sukui told me they were traveling in that direction. I will go north and search for my companions in every town I pass.
I will find her. I must. I will travel hard, I will outrun my own shadow. I will not rest. I will not sleep again unless my Sango is beside me.
He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he saw her. He was mildly afraid he wouldn’t recognize her, that he might pass her somewhere and never see her again. He was afraid she would see him and think him a ghost, a zombie, and in her haste slay him with the huge weapon Sukui mentioned in the conversation they held while they walked back from the river earlier that evening.
“Sukui-sama, could you tell me if you know anything about my friends?”
“What do you want to know, Houshi-sama?”
“Their names.”
She clasped her hands together.
“Well, there was the hanyou, Inuyasha. Kowai! Silver hair, dog ears on the top of his head. And there was the girl that seemed to be married to him. Strange green kimono. Never seen clothes like that. And there was a kitsune – he kept bugging the hanyou, like he wasn’t afraid of him at all. Anyway, there was the peasant girl with a huge . . . gomen, Houshi-sama, I don’t know what it was, but she carried it on her back. A weapon, maybe. She was wearing that apron you had. The way you two carried on, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you’re together.”
“Are you sure you don’t remember any other names?”
“Gomen, Inuyasha was the only one I remember. The girl with the weird clothes must have yelled it a thousand times while I was watching them.”
“Not even mine?”
“Gomen, Houshi-sama.”
Morning came very slowly, as it always does for young houshi who do not sleep. He could not rest well for fear of Sukui returning to him. Nor could he ignore the pang in his heart with every light, muffled sob he heard from the young woman across the hut.
It is best this way.
Chapters originally written 25 February 2003, 3 March 2003, and 27 April 2003
Revised format and structure and resubmitted 20 July 2003
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