BY JOEL TAGERT All through the lowlands the cherries dangled ripe and red from the trees, begging to be eaten. The soldiers of Kueh Feng’s army, hungry after the months of their bitter campaign, were happy to oblige; and having gorged, by the time they reached the foothills many were shitting their guts out, dysentery already being a severe problem. This was bad enough when so many had to squat suddenly by the roadside, slowing down the march; it was far worse when they were chained together as they entered the fogcloaked hills of Huliyashan. “Seven hells, Huang,” cursed Chen, rattling the iron links between them, turning his head in disgust. “Your shit smells like–” “Shhh!” hissed the man in front of Chen, Zhu Gang. “Shhh yourself, you pimply ass.” He struck his comrade-at-arms in the shoulder with a jangle of leather and mail. “What are you, fifteen? I was fighting battles and fucking women when you were sucking on your mother’s tit.” “Listen!” whispered Zhu, and the urgency in his tone did shut Chen up. They did not stop walking, but from the northeast, amid the pines, they heard the sound of a very young girl, singing an old nursery rhyme: “The mouse told the three wolves, follow me home / I’ll show you where the dead men have hidden their bones / a lake so still with water so black / there’s no way you’ll ever come back.” “Who’s out there?” yelled Chen suddenly. Zhu cursed, but Chen just ignored him. A few heads turned curiously up and down the line, but the mist had a way of deadening sound. From behind a black-barked pine poked the head of a young girl, perhaps No. 140 DAN MORAN, SAMURAI MARCH | BEST OF BIRDY ISSUE 062, FEBRUARY 2019
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