Every story Hino had been told about the rekindling of the sun ended at the Red Moon Shrine.

  Like quiet companions, they kept apace of her lonely ascent, the memories a kind of warmth against the cold push of the mountain. The winds nipped her, and she recalled the circle of Father’s arms, made all the cozier with Teru snuggled in beside her. The forests murmured, and she remembered Father’s bright voice spinning tales of adventure and heroism. How often had she been left staring up at Mount Tsukigami in wide-eyed wonder?

  And here she was, now—with the night deepening and her steps growing heavy. Grandfather’s voice, quiet and grave, crept in. His tellings had been of a different sort—not the kind children were interested in hearing. Hours and hours of history lessons steeped in reverence and duty that made the tatami feel like a bed of needles, that even now seemed to poke and prick at her tired feet.

  By the time she finally stopped to rest, something had taken root between her labored breaths. Soon after, as she inspected the measly rations that Teru had been given—a handful of pickled plum rice balls, a small stack of rice flour cakes, and a few strips of dried persimmon—she admitted to herself what she had long suspected; what Teru, too, had tried to tell her.

  Neither Father nor Grandfather had ever spoken of the journey back. Only the morning was meant to return.

  Yet, Hino was not worried. Not yet, anyway.

  She sat for a time on the steps, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of sweet persimmon and resting legs that still had a ways to climb tonight. A swig of water, kept cool by the night’s chill, washed it down and saw her back up, tucking the gourd safely away into her bundle. Then, she checked her sandclock, confirmed she was making good progress, and swung the carrying stick back onto her shoulders.

  There was one last thing to do before she continued. To one side of the stone steps, a slip of white linen hung from a low branch, fluttering like a caught bird in the rough breeze. She reached over, deftly loosened it, and pushed it into her sleeve alongside the other she’d already collected. At the next one, she’d sleep for a few hours.

  On the other side, she confirmed, too, that the red linen meant to mark her way back was still there. And, satisfied that all was as it should be, Hino set out again.

  For months now, she had been planning this. The sun had not died all at once, after all—the stone had been set in the stream since last spring, when the days had begun to shorten toward summer. What daylight remained she’d used wisely, leaving waymarks and caches of supplies for herself at regular intervals, even digging out little shelters and noting places where the mountain trickled fresh water.

  There was only so far one could go, however; only so much one could do. Always, the light had been too fleeting, the darkness growing ever swifter to arrive. To stray beyond the sight of Kōmyō Temple’s twinkling lanterns after sundown would have been foolish. And so, past a certain point, Hino would be at the mercy of Mount Tsukigami—and the things that inhabited its further reaches.

  To say nothing of what came after the mountain’s peak.

  But Hino put it from her mind. She would deal with that when she came to it. Her promise to Teru would not be in vain.

  No matter what, Hino would return along with the morning.

  Only, an endless night stood in her way.

  When Hino woke, it was to an empty sky; the world painted in shades of ash. While she slept, the glowing moon had disappeared over the horizon, plunging the sun-starved forest into a far more unsettling kind of night. Although the gusty winds had ceased, her breath now misted before her—the only sound or sign of life in the stillness.

  Chill had seeped into her bones in spite of her efforts, and her body was stiff and aching as she brushed off her blanket of old leaves. With some difficulty, she rerolled her straw sleeping mat in wax paper—both had been stored nearby the stone steps some weeks past—before spearing it with her carrying stick. It was awkward work, carried out in near complete darkness.

  Even so, she hesitated to start a fire. Hours before, with the light of the moon still high, she’d retrieved her fire striker from where she’d buried it. It would have been a welcome thing, to heat some stones for warmth as she rested, to eat this day’s single rice ball by the flickering firelight. But she had yet to use it; not to ease the cold from her skin nor to offer her eyes that sparing comfort.

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  On Mount Tsukigami, a lone and unmoving flame would attract the gaze of spirits.

  Hino resumed her climb, carrying with her a long, resin-tipped torch—one of many she’d stashed—to steady her steps instead of illuminate them. Regardless, the going was slow and difficult; far more than it had been by moonlight. Shadows blurred the stone beneath her feet, the stairs growing steeper as she went. More than once, she stumbled, only catching herself on her makeshift staff.

  To make matters worse, the day’s sparse color soon leeched away. A low, black ceiling of clouds closed over the mountain, brought in by renewed gales. Already, Hino had fallen behind schedule—by that point, she should have reached her fourth waymark an hour past. Now, even her dark-accustomed eyes could see nothing. With the bitter wind biting through her clothing and the threat of rain upon her, she no longer had a choice.

  The torch flashed to life, hot and sudden. Hino blinked rapidly, stunned as her surroundings appeared in stark relief. Her frozen face thawed all at once, and she was tempted, too, to warm her icy hands. But it was no time to linger about. Hurriedly, she replaced her fire striker in its pouch, stringing that upon her carrying stick. And with the sharp scent of smoke and burning resin in her nose, she got to moving.

  A light rain came soon after; so gentle that it fizzled away before Hino’s fire, but persistent enough to slick the stone steps. Still, within the orange ring of torchlight, Hino made better progress than she had before—not least because she dared not pause too long with the flame like a beacon in her hands.

  What she dared, however, mattered little; her body, after all, had its own limits.

  At her seventh waymark, Hino came to a stop, weak and panting. Driving the torch into the rocky ground beside the steps, she floundered about for food and water. Perhaps, if she was quick, she might still avoid any unwanted attention. But as she bent to peel back the damp cloth that protected her provisions, she caught a glimpse of something at the edge of the torch’s glow.

  From behind the leaf of a scraggly fern, that something peered back at her with eyes like black holes.

  Hino’s first instinct was to scream and scramble away.

  Luckily, she clapped a hand over her mouth and managed not to fall backward down the stairs. Screaming would have accomplished nothing, and scrambling on the slippery stone would have undone a good deal—especially when the tiny thing before her really posed no danger other than startling her with its appearance.

  It had come, of course, because of the flame. Kodama lived in the trees and were as wary of fire as they were fascinated with it. No more than two hands tall, with a misshapen head larger than the rest of its body, the little white spirit watched her curiously.

  Unnerving, but ultimately harmless. At least, if Father’s stories were to be believed.

  Nevertheless, Hino’s heart pounded, her hands quivering as she uncorked her water gourd. In those few moments of excitement, her fatigue had dissipated. She wanted to get going again, to leave the silent, staring critter behind before anything else came upon her. Indeed, she had hoped to escape the notice of Mount Tsukigami’s inhuman occupants for as long as possible. To encounter one already, innocuous as it was, did not bode well for steering clear of the others.

  Water hastily gulped, Hino grabbed two rice crackers, holding them in her mouth as she readied to depart expeditiously.

  Yet, from the corner of her eye, she could not help but notice the kodama swaying slightly, faintly fluorescent in the darkness. It was just so peculiar! And it really didn’t seem dangerous. As if realizing her interest, it cocked its too-big head at her, almost falling over as it lost its balance.

  One corner of Hino’s mouth curved up, promptly suppressed with a bite of a rice cracker. The kodama tilted its head the other way and almost fell again. This time, a tentative smile graced Hino’s lips, and the creature bobbed in response.

  Then, it held out one of its chubby four-fingered hands expectantly.

  Frowning, Hino pondered it in confusion. The hand trembled, as if uncertain. It reminded her, somehow, of Kira when he’d been a baby, always reaching for whatever she carried. And there was, at this very moment, an uneaten rice cracker between her fingers.

  “You want this?” she asked softly, with a nod to the cracker. The little spirit jumped at her voice, withdrawing behind its leaf. Hino, too, felt surprised to hear herself—muffled though she was beneath the pittering of the rain. How odd it must have been for the kodama to hear human speech, when Hino herself found it foreign here. Cautiously, and rather apologetically, she extended her hand, offering the cracker.

  The kodama peeked out from its hiding place, a void-like eye alighting upon Hino’s gift. After a breath, then another, it emerged—slowly at first, then at a scurry. It snatched the rice cracker and retreated once more, half concealed in the brush.

  A spark of satisfaction settled itself in Hino’s chest, displacing her earlier unease. Indeed, it was just like Father had said. She couldn’t wait to tell Grandmother and Teru and the others about this. Perhaps, once the rain let up, she could even sketch the kodama in Grandmother’s drawing book, so that they might get a good look at it, too!

  Preparations complete, Hino spared a last glance the kodama’s way.

  Dozens of black eyes, set in irregular white faces, stared back at her—clinging to bark and branches, dangling from leaf and bramble.

  With a gasp and a whimper, Hino let the torch fall. It sputtered once on the wet stone, then died. Yet, those eyes remained fixed upon her, unblinking; the pallid, glowing faces expressionless. Hino did not look back. She ran, taking the steps two at a time, and the endless night swallowed her greedily.

  An Orphan's Dream

  by jbgeeks

  [Royal Road Community Magazine Contest- January] - [Short Story]

  But more importantly, a chance to have something he had dreamt of but never truly thought possible: