Siinji - Or, Ankūro and the City of the Golden Boughs

21

21

Any foolish choice,
Even made for good reasons,
Is still then foolish?
- Momiji.

He stared at the opening to the forest. Beyond that tree line lay the series of paths with their trickery and darkness. He looked up at the darkening clouds. The rain had not stopped for a second since it had started back at Tanou's home. It had rained soft, light spray, thick bolts of penetrating water and a storm that had almost forced his stomach to leave his body completely.

Now it came heavier, pattering against ground that had become soft and muddy. Tiny rivers crawled and rolled down the gentle slope, back towards the sea and the fishing village, as though giving him a wet path to follow, away from the danger that he knew awaited him if he entered the forest.

In truth, he had little choice. Mere weeks before, days, even, he would have followed White Eye's last order and disappeared. He would have left this island that he despised and loved in equal measure. This was not his place. Not his problem. Not his responsibility. Though, as much as he chewed upon the options available to him, he knew, deep inside, what the inevitable path was that he would choose.

He almost screamed at himself as his foot lifted and stepped forward. This was not his way. Running. That was his way. Running and hiding and hoping that, if caught, his talented tongue could save him if all else failed. Yet, his feet continued to move forward, into the trees and on to the hidden path beyond. He would regret this, some day. If he lived. But, for some reason, he knew he would regret it more if he didn't take this path.

Once entered into the forest, the sounds of open countryside became dulled and distant, with only the muted sounds of the forest to keep him company. He remembered the way, for the most part. For any split in the path, any junction or turn that he struggled to remember, he would open his ears for the tell-tale signs. Silence to one side, bird song, rustling leaves and the calls of forest animals to the other.

After a while, he reached the place where the short battle had occurred. Even the scuffs against the surface of the path, the blood from the dead, everything had disappeared, yet Tuccé knew what he had seen. He crouched, digging a finger into the soil and found a trace of blood beneath. Those people, the warriors that blended with the trees, had somehow taken away or covered every piece of evidence of their existence. After a fashion, Tuccé admired that.

With no weapons, he knew it was foolish to continue. Patrons! Even if he had weapons, it would make little difference. Many talents were his to call upon. Not one of them involved fighting. What he could hope to achieve here, how he could help, escaped him. Yet, he continued to follow the paths further up, towards the penis-shaped mountain. Even that failed to make him smile. A mountain in the shape of a penis! How anyone could see it as a boot, he could not imagine.

The path started to become more steep as he carried on, checking each split and junction for sounds. He wondered how far the old woman had got in his absence. Whether she had caught up to those 'shadow' warriors. Cut them down and rescued Yurivno. He imagined the old woman strutting down the path towards him, scratching her backside and grunting. Pointing a thumb over her shoulder at the Kannai girl.

But that imagined vision did not happen. The path remained clear as he continued along it. Not a sign of White Eye. Not a sign of Yurivno. Only trees, heavy raindrops falling from the wide leaves of the forest canopy and the damp dirt track. He didn't even know if anyone watched from the trees, tracking his progress as he fought against his exhaustion and creaking lungs.

He had expected those warriors to appear before now. His idea to surrender, allow them to take him to where they held Yurivno seemed idiotic to him, now. The chances that the warriors would accept that surrender, instead of gutting him where he stood, were low. The kind of low chances he would never bet on, were he at home, where even he wouldn't ride his luck against pitiful odds. A gamble only ever remained fun where the chance of winning remained. He had never gambled with his life before.