On the Horizon, Song Awaits
The child had always found herself in dark places. She had kissed life from her mother’s cold womb, and Chiharu knew her demise would be met the same way—like a serpent devouring its own tail.
Despite this, here she was, engulfed by ocean waters, greedily mimicking the very womb she had been expelled from—her usual ritual, as per Tomoe’s instruction.
Training was never something to be taken lightly. It imitated the life-and-death situations a shinobi was bound to face.
“If you fail to train, Chiharu, you will die.”
Gospel—the only word to describe Tomoe’s words. They had never been taken lightly and never would be. The child was sick of the darkness, and she would be damned if this war-stricken world deprived her of light.
The serpent squeezed at Chiharu’s lungs, and they tightened with every second that ticked away. Every ligament tensed, like her hands on the rotten wood she held.
How long had she been submerged? It was hard to tell—it always had been. When she had started this training three years ago, she could barely last a minute before breaking the surface.
Sweet promises of relief slithered from the snake’s forked tongue, its sinful grime seeking to taint her blood. Her mind roared—the roar of a beast from hell, clawing for salvation, tempting her human spirit to fall with it.
But her heart still beat beneath layers of flesh and bone. Steady. Unwavering. A reminder she was still alive. That was proof enough to continue.
She needed to focus.
Not on the life in her capillaries, but on the chirping notes Tomoe sent through the shakuhachi. Each tweet transcended sound, weaving together.
One note became two. Two became four. Each sound entwined with the next, like lovers hidden beneath the secrecy of night, sharing one another despite the word of their god. They no longer moved alone. They danced as one—perfect—being. The night that had hidden their divine sin had birthed salvation: a bird.
It tried to break the crystalline surface, but each time its wing grazed the water, the music winced. It flew away. Turned. Tried again. Again. Again.
She needed to focus.
The demon in her head refused to surrender, its cries growing louder. But so did the chirping.
Each anchovy that swam past regarded her as inanimate—no human could be this still. But to Chiharu, everything inside and around her moved at a speed beyond human comprehension.
The surface was broken. A fish died.
Again.
The surface was broken. Eight fish died.
Again.
The surface was broken. Thirty-two fish died.
Before the first’s lifeless shell could reach the surface, 423 more anchovies had been skewered on her dull, rotting stick. They had not even seen her. The water that had given them life had betrayed them that day.
Their school had not noticed. They swam around the monster that held their fate in her small hands and rotted wood. Their mistake had cost them everything: themselves and each other.
She did not stop. The quick movements of her arms came at a price. Her muscles ached, stiff as the spear she often carried on her back. Her head pounded—the beast clawing at its cage, stripping her skull of its layers of bone.
No ripples accompanied her movements; she was too fast.
Chiharu’s body remained suspended in the water, waiting for Tomoe’s command—a marionette anticipating the pull of its stiff limbs.
The anchovies were gone. They had betrayed the ocean, just as it had betrayed them.
In death, the anchovy did not linger; it floated to the top, desperate for the warmth of the sun that so rarely shone in Kiri. Unfortunately, today was not one of those days. The sun would not return for another two months.
They had served their purpose: target practice for a wannabe ninja.
The swallow still fought to dive, but birds were not meant to swim. They belonged to the sky.
The beast in her skull thrashed. Tore. Gnawed. Clawed at her thoughts.
She wanted to hear the music, though. What was the song Tomoe played? Maybe it was a new one she could learn.
Yes. The beast would not win today.
Unlike the fish before her, Chiharu did not float to the surface; she swam. With vigor. With determination. With death at her doorstep.
No light awaited her above. The sun was veiled in fog. The water’s surface was littered with the bodies of anchovies.
She let go of the wood. It had no use now, just as she had no use for the hundreds of fish obscuring her view.
With one final push, she broke free from the sea, pushing past her latest victims with a breath of life—only to be met by the swallow.
It flooded her mind, its chiming song putting the beast to rest. Chiharu closed her eyes and floated among the anchovies.
The song stopped.
“Eighty-four minutes, thirty-two seconds. A new record.”
“That was a lovely song, Tomoe. Won’t you teach me?”
Tomoe sat in the canoe, her long skirt untouched by wear despite its age. Her posture was as straight as the flute she held.
“Aren’t you tired?” she asked, as she always did.
“Yes. Quite.” Chiharu answered, as she always did.
Tomoe did not sigh as she had the first few times. Instead, she pulled the child from the water, her body heavy with seawater.
“This one is called Seabird. I thought you’d like it.”
How funny. She had known it resembled a bird. Chiharu’s perpetual grin softened into a true smile as she sat up to face the older woman.
From Tomoe’s pack, she pulled out her own shakuhachi, and together, they played song after song until the moon awoke from its slumber.