husband Eishun continued drinking, even when their precious daughter, Kinuko, had been sick with fever, in need of just such medicine? Izanagi swept the coins off the table, and replaced them carefully with two locks of hair, each bound with green thread. “One lock is from a fawn’s tail; the other from a young girl. Which is the girl’s?” Both were light brown, and both soft and fine as could be beneath Yamauba’s fingertips. Finally she raised the left, which she perceived was a little softer. “This one.” Her host smiled, and his teeth were small and sharp. “No, no. That’s just fawn’s hair.” Tears came to Yama-uba’s eyes. Hadn’t she stroked Kinuko’s hair a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand times? How could she have forgotten it? Her daughter had been everything to her; after Kinuko had died, with her husband deep in drink, Yama-uba had fled to the forest. “Two for me so far,” Izagami said. “Here’s the third.” From his robes he took out two small ivory snuff boxes. He took the top off each and set them on the table. “Tell me, which has the true scent of emptiness?” Emptiness has no scent, she almost said; but that would have forfeited the game, she was sure. Instead she lifted a box to her nose. It did not contain snuff, but what she thought was a bit of sand. It smelled of the waves, salt and seaweed. Well, that could be it: certainly the ocean was vast and empty. The second contained a bit of charred ironwood; and without conscious volition she was transported to the night her mother was cremated. Afterward she had walked along the river and looked up at the stars, thinking nothing at all. A sense of peace filled her with the memory, which she had forgotten all these years. “It’s this one,” she said. Izanagi gave a single nod, clearly disappointed. “Now it’s my turn,” she said. From her bag she withdrew one of the yams, while from her sleeve she withdrew Kyojin, setting both on the table. “Listen carefully. Everyone knows that foxes always lie, while honorable men tell the truth. Now, if you were a fox playing this game, which would you choose to eat?” Izanagi licked his lips, eyes flicking between yam, mouse and questioner. “The mouse,” he answered finally. “No,” she replied. “You have lied, and lost. The fox in the story must choose the yam, because that is a lie; an honorable man, knowing this, would answer ‘yam’ also. But knowing this, you have lied about the fox’s lie, and so revealed yourself as a fox.” “Even so,” said Izanagi, and with a flashing hand, seized the mouse and stuffed it into his mouth. Blood trickled down his chin, his eyes wild. “One last contest.” “I will need some hot water.” He scowled. “Fine.” He got up and lit a small brazier by the dining area and set a kettle upon it. “Have you always been a fox?” she asked. “No. Once I was a teacher, but I led a student astray, and they killed themselves. This is my punishment.” When the water was ready, she made tea from ingredients in her satchel, showing each to Izanagi. “Now, say your old student is here. The dark tea will excite your appetite and your strength; the light tea offers liberation from your past. How will you instruct them?” For a long time the fox spirit, the kitsune, sat looking at her. In a slow, graceful movement, he lifted a cup to his lips. Afterward Yama-uba lay down and slept. She awoke in a dank hole in the earth, with many old bones and the body of a silver fox beside her. Fever broken, she crawled toward the opening and emerged into the sunlit spring. No. 60No. 132
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