[story] fake glass skies
author: REI (rei_kurasaki)
The cicadas are unusually loud this year, thinks the kappa as he lies on the bank. The sky above him is a blanket of velvet black, and he can see tiny gleaming spots on it. Stars, the tengu tells him, as he ruffles his feathers in a show of importance. Something too far to reach even if one flew 100 li a day. The fox that sat and talked with them, occasionally swishing his tail, and said that it was the place that the gods went to eventually.
"Perhaps, we won't be so lonely there," the fox says wistfully.
The river he lives in is small, but there are plenty of fishes. The old ladies who cross the bridge sometimes throw cucumbers in. He never eats the paper attached to it though, but he reads them occasionally and never understands what they were suppose mean; they only had meaningless names scribbled on it anyway, inky splotches on white.
Sometimes he watches the people as they cross the bridge and wonder if they would be good to eat. Probably not, he thinks, as he sinks deeper into the river. Humans have a stink that never goes away.
The wooden bridge over his river is old. Sometimes he can hear the frames creak. It'll collapse soon, the water guardian whispers as she traces one finger along the swollen beams.
The kappa nods in agreement.
There is a boy he sees everyday.
The boy walks over the bridge every morning and evening, and he sits under the bridge to listen to the boy's footsteps; small and even, the boy never rushes, never slows. Sometimes, he watches the boy from the shadows of the river, and watches the way the light catches on the boy's fine hair, or watches the way his shadow move over the water.
The kappa watches him very carefully.
The river guardian sometimes weeps for her waters.
The kappa knows why; he has seen the plastic bottles float by, tasted the scum that the humans throw. He has touched the rusting bicycle, half buried on the river bed, where it has been for a year. Fishes make their home among the handrails and river eels slither between wheels. The river is changing; he can feel it in the waters and earth when he touches the river bed with spindly fingers.
"A storm is coming," says the fox, narrowing his eyes.
"A terrible storm," the tengu agrees, as he flaps his wings. "We will need to get away."
Where to?, the kappa asks, watching the river guardian cry bitter tears.
The fox looks troubled then, and his golden tail stops moving in the still night. The tengu looks at the fox, then looks away, scratching odd footprints into the muddy river banks.
"Somewhere far away," the fox finally says, and all the kappa can hear is a silent sob.
The boy's name is Ren.
The kappa learns this when he listens to three different sets of footsteps and voices under the bridge. His boy speaks in tones that are level and measured, like water flowing through the deepest end of the rivee. The other voice fluctuate like floundering fishes. It is unpleasant, the kappa decides, very unpleasant.
His boy would be nicer to eat.
The sun is out today, and the river guardian is in a good mood. She laughs as she listens to the humans walk on the bridge above, and she returns the little colourful bobbing balls that human children sometimes drop into her waters.
Why are you so kind to humans?, the kappa asks.
The river guardian looks at him in surprise. You do not like the humans?
He thinks of the noisy children, and he thinks of the rubbish they throw into their waters. He thinks of the boy (Ren) and of his even voice.
He's not quite sure how to answer her question.
When will the storm come?, the kappa asks one night, when the wind is blowing through the trees.
The fox shakes his head. "No one really knows of sui-ten's plans. We are only told before the storm comes."
They don't talk about it again. Instead, they drink cold sake under the moon, listening to the crickets.
The boy has taken to slowing down over the bridge whenever he passes by.
The kappa stays in the shadows of old wooden beams and listens as the familiar footsteps slow. Usually, they slow, then continue, like the countless of times before. Today though, the footsteps slow and stop, and as the kappa listens, an eel swims past his feet, lazily, in the cool water.
"You're there, aren't you?," the boy asks in his soft even voice.
A heartbeat later, the footsteps continue on their way.
The kappa listens like he always does.
The fishes are agitated and dart around the river bed in broken flashes of silver.
Above water, the sky is slowly turning grey. The humans hurry about their usual lives and never stop to look up, or stop to listen to the chattering of birds as they fly south, towards warmer weather. They don't notice the way the wind changes, bending trees as they whip around. Humans never notice the warnings, the kappa thinks and he feels just a little annoyed.
Sui-ten is coming, the river guardian whispers.
The boy has taken visiting the river at night.
He sits on the banks and watches the water. He always appears once the stars come out, and carefully, quietly, he appears by the water edge. He's always in his uniform. The river guardian likes him a lot, and keeps the banks clean for him.
The kappa watches him carefully; he isn't quite sure what to make of this curious little human. The fox and the tengu watches the boy from the shadows of trees and wonder aloud at his presence.
The boy does nothing but watch the river.
The birds are all leaving.
They make their way south in waves of noisy crackles, and the river guardian seems sad to watch them go. The animals in the nearby forest have all retreated deeper, further inland, where shelter is more than just greenery over their heads.
They'll come back once sui-ten leaves, she says, but the sadness in her eyes do not go away.
The boy sits closer to the banks, and occasionally he takes off his shoes and dips his toes in. "Excuse my intrusion," the boy always whispers before he slides his feet in.
The kappa edges closer, silent and lurking. He runs a long finger across pale skin. The human boy shivers, but doesn't withdraw his legs.
An eel, the human boy will think, slipping past his feet.
Perhaps, thinks the kappa as he stares at pale human skin, I won't eat him after all.
It is a still night when the fox and tengu visit.
The kappa swims to the far shore and together they watch the odd little human boy. The kappa watches as the river guardian pushes water to lap at the boy's feet like a wet tongue and ignores what the fox and the tengu are saying.
The birds have all left, and the forest is silent; the cicadas continue to sing loudly, but their voices waver under the night sky.
"We will leave tonight," the tengu says, and he scratches odd symbols into the mud. "Sui-ten will be here soon."
How soon?, asks the kappa.
"Soon enough," the fox says, and swishes his tail. "It will be a severe and terrible storm. We must leave."
Goodbye, says the kappa and thinks this be how it feels when humans use the word "loneliness".
"We will come back," the fox says, and his smile is full of fangs that glint in the moonlight.
Sui-ten arrives two days later, heralded by bright strikes of lightning and thunder so loud he can feel the tremors in the water.
The kappa stays under the creaking wooden bridge as the river guardian quietly shoos away stray fish near the surface. It's not safe right now, she coos and silver flashes dart between her fingers. Sui-ten is working.
The rain sui-ten is calling up hits the river surface like little stones from the sky, and the kappa watch as the humans hurry, struggling against the wind with their tiny frail bodies.
That night, the boy doesn't come.
The rain doesn't stop.
It falls, and falls, and falls. Water pours into the river, off the sides of the wooden bridge. The trees weep from their leaves and even the tiny frogs complain that they're drowning. I wonder when will sui-ten stop, the river guardian says, humans cannot cope with too much water for very long.
She looks a little worried when she says that.
Their tiny river has swelled.
Water laps at the top of the wooden bridge, where the soaked wood has started to buckle in places. And yet sui-ten still continues. The kappa stays in the deepest part of the river and watches the banks idly; the mud is slick and slippery, and little rivulets of brown water make their way into the river.
They haven't seen another human for days.
It is the fifth day when the boy comes.
He's standing by the edge of the wooden bridge and his fine hair is plastered to his face. His uniform is wet, dripping rain onto already-soaked wood, and he's looking at the river.
The kappa watches him very carefully, and he tracks the way water snakes down from the boy's eyes, sliding smoothly down his face.
The wind howls and sui-ten is working harder than ever.
The kappa watches as the boy makes his way down slippery muddy bands and places one foot in the swollen river.
Don't do it, the river guardian cries as she tries to push him away.
The boy is so close now, that the kappa can smell him; all sun and rain and boy.
"I'm not afraid," the boy says, and his voice does not waver in the wind. His hair is plastered to his face and he stares up at the grey sky for a brief moment.
When he slides into the river, the waters welcome him quietly.
The boy is now his boy.
The kappa touches the boy's feet, and his hands roam over ankles, over thighs, over human hands, until he sees the boy's face. He stares at the boy and the boy stares at him, pale hair floating like filtered sunlight. The kappa touches the boy with careful (he's very carefu) fingers, and he wraps one hand around the boy's throat. The boy closes his eyes and the kappa listens, as air bubbles escape.
There are bruises on the boy's neck; they are red and angry. There are old bruises on the boy's arms; they are yellowing and ugly. Humans bruise so easily.
The kappa releases his hand and the boy opens his eyes; he can read no fear in them.
I'll be keeping you now, the kappa says, as he wraps strong hands around the boy's feet.
The boy's eyes widen then.
The bridge doesn't collapse.
Sui-ten doesn't stop till four days later; by then, there is water everywhere, and even frogs from the muddy banks are complaining to anyone who would listen. The trees heave a sigh of relief at the first blue streak in the sky, and slowly the birds make their way back noisy waves. The fox and the tengu are back as well, and they sit in the shadows as they watch humans scurry to and fro. They call for Ren, as if searching for something.
"I wonder what the humans are looking for," the tengu says, bored.
the end
The cicadas are unusually loud this year, thinks the kappa as he lies on the bank. The sky above him is a blanket of velvet black, and he can see tiny gleaming spots on it. Stars, the tengu tells him, as he ruffles his feathers in a show of importance. Something too far to reach even if one flew 100 li a day. The fox that sat and talked with them, occasionally swishing his tail, and said that it was the place that the gods went to eventually.
"Perhaps, we won't be so lonely there," the fox says wistfully.
The river he lives in is small, but there are plenty of fishes. The old ladies who cross the bridge sometimes throw cucumbers in. He never eats the paper attached to it though, but he reads them occasionally and never understands what they were suppose mean; they only had meaningless names scribbled on it anyway, inky splotches on white.
Sometimes he watches the people as they cross the bridge and wonder if they would be good to eat. Probably not, he thinks, as he sinks deeper into the river. Humans have a stink that never goes away.
The wooden bridge over his river is old. Sometimes he can hear the frames creak. It'll collapse soon, the water guardian whispers as she traces one finger along the swollen beams.
The kappa nods in agreement.
There is a boy he sees everyday.
The boy walks over the bridge every morning and evening, and he sits under the bridge to listen to the boy's footsteps; small and even, the boy never rushes, never slows. Sometimes, he watches the boy from the shadows of the river, and watches the way the light catches on the boy's fine hair, or watches the way his shadow move over the water.
The kappa watches him very carefully.
The river guardian sometimes weeps for her waters.
The kappa knows why; he has seen the plastic bottles float by, tasted the scum that the humans throw. He has touched the rusting bicycle, half buried on the river bed, where it has been for a year. Fishes make their home among the handrails and river eels slither between wheels. The river is changing; he can feel it in the waters and earth when he touches the river bed with spindly fingers.
"A storm is coming," says the fox, narrowing his eyes.
"A terrible storm," the tengu agrees, as he flaps his wings. "We will need to get away."
Where to?, the kappa asks, watching the river guardian cry bitter tears.
The fox looks troubled then, and his golden tail stops moving in the still night. The tengu looks at the fox, then looks away, scratching odd footprints into the muddy river banks.
"Somewhere far away," the fox finally says, and all the kappa can hear is a silent sob.
The boy's name is Ren.
The kappa learns this when he listens to three different sets of footsteps and voices under the bridge. His boy speaks in tones that are level and measured, like water flowing through the deepest end of the rivee. The other voice fluctuate like floundering fishes. It is unpleasant, the kappa decides, very unpleasant.
His boy would be nicer to eat.
The sun is out today, and the river guardian is in a good mood. She laughs as she listens to the humans walk on the bridge above, and she returns the little colourful bobbing balls that human children sometimes drop into her waters.
Why are you so kind to humans?, the kappa asks.
The river guardian looks at him in surprise. You do not like the humans?
He thinks of the noisy children, and he thinks of the rubbish they throw into their waters. He thinks of the boy (Ren) and of his even voice.
He's not quite sure how to answer her question.
When will the storm come?, the kappa asks one night, when the wind is blowing through the trees.
The fox shakes his head. "No one really knows of sui-ten's plans. We are only told before the storm comes."
They don't talk about it again. Instead, they drink cold sake under the moon, listening to the crickets.
The boy has taken to slowing down over the bridge whenever he passes by.
The kappa stays in the shadows of old wooden beams and listens as the familiar footsteps slow. Usually, they slow, then continue, like the countless of times before. Today though, the footsteps slow and stop, and as the kappa listens, an eel swims past his feet, lazily, in the cool water.
"You're there, aren't you?," the boy asks in his soft even voice.
A heartbeat later, the footsteps continue on their way.
The kappa listens like he always does.
The fishes are agitated and dart around the river bed in broken flashes of silver.
Above water, the sky is slowly turning grey. The humans hurry about their usual lives and never stop to look up, or stop to listen to the chattering of birds as they fly south, towards warmer weather. They don't notice the way the wind changes, bending trees as they whip around. Humans never notice the warnings, the kappa thinks and he feels just a little annoyed.
Sui-ten is coming, the river guardian whispers.
The boy has taken visiting the river at night.
He sits on the banks and watches the water. He always appears once the stars come out, and carefully, quietly, he appears by the water edge. He's always in his uniform. The river guardian likes him a lot, and keeps the banks clean for him.
The kappa watches him carefully; he isn't quite sure what to make of this curious little human. The fox and the tengu watches the boy from the shadows of trees and wonder aloud at his presence.
The boy does nothing but watch the river.
The birds are all leaving.
They make their way south in waves of noisy crackles, and the river guardian seems sad to watch them go. The animals in the nearby forest have all retreated deeper, further inland, where shelter is more than just greenery over their heads.
They'll come back once sui-ten leaves, she says, but the sadness in her eyes do not go away.
The boy sits closer to the banks, and occasionally he takes off his shoes and dips his toes in. "Excuse my intrusion," the boy always whispers before he slides his feet in.
The kappa edges closer, silent and lurking. He runs a long finger across pale skin. The human boy shivers, but doesn't withdraw his legs.
An eel, the human boy will think, slipping past his feet.
Perhaps, thinks the kappa as he stares at pale human skin, I won't eat him after all.
It is a still night when the fox and tengu visit.
The kappa swims to the far shore and together they watch the odd little human boy. The kappa watches as the river guardian pushes water to lap at the boy's feet like a wet tongue and ignores what the fox and the tengu are saying.
The birds have all left, and the forest is silent; the cicadas continue to sing loudly, but their voices waver under the night sky.
"We will leave tonight," the tengu says, and he scratches odd symbols into the mud. "Sui-ten will be here soon."
How soon?, asks the kappa.
"Soon enough," the fox says, and swishes his tail. "It will be a severe and terrible storm. We must leave."
Goodbye, says the kappa and thinks this be how it feels when humans use the word "loneliness".
"We will come back," the fox says, and his smile is full of fangs that glint in the moonlight.
Sui-ten arrives two days later, heralded by bright strikes of lightning and thunder so loud he can feel the tremors in the water.
The kappa stays under the creaking wooden bridge as the river guardian quietly shoos away stray fish near the surface. It's not safe right now, she coos and silver flashes dart between her fingers. Sui-ten is working.
The rain sui-ten is calling up hits the river surface like little stones from the sky, and the kappa watch as the humans hurry, struggling against the wind with their tiny frail bodies.
That night, the boy doesn't come.
The rain doesn't stop.
It falls, and falls, and falls. Water pours into the river, off the sides of the wooden bridge. The trees weep from their leaves and even the tiny frogs complain that they're drowning. I wonder when will sui-ten stop, the river guardian says, humans cannot cope with too much water for very long.
She looks a little worried when she says that.
Their tiny river has swelled.
Water laps at the top of the wooden bridge, where the soaked wood has started to buckle in places. And yet sui-ten still continues. The kappa stays in the deepest part of the river and watches the banks idly; the mud is slick and slippery, and little rivulets of brown water make their way into the river.
They haven't seen another human for days.
It is the fifth day when the boy comes.
He's standing by the edge of the wooden bridge and his fine hair is plastered to his face. His uniform is wet, dripping rain onto already-soaked wood, and he's looking at the river.
The kappa watches him very carefully, and he tracks the way water snakes down from the boy's eyes, sliding smoothly down his face.
The wind howls and sui-ten is working harder than ever.
The kappa watches as the boy makes his way down slippery muddy bands and places one foot in the swollen river.
Don't do it, the river guardian cries as she tries to push him away.
The boy is so close now, that the kappa can smell him; all sun and rain and boy.
"I'm not afraid," the boy says, and his voice does not waver in the wind. His hair is plastered to his face and he stares up at the grey sky for a brief moment.
When he slides into the river, the waters welcome him quietly.
The boy is now his boy.
The kappa touches the boy's feet, and his hands roam over ankles, over thighs, over human hands, until he sees the boy's face. He stares at the boy and the boy stares at him, pale hair floating like filtered sunlight. The kappa touches the boy with careful (he's very carefu) fingers, and he wraps one hand around the boy's throat. The boy closes his eyes and the kappa listens, as air bubbles escape.
There are bruises on the boy's neck; they are red and angry. There are old bruises on the boy's arms; they are yellowing and ugly. Humans bruise so easily.
The kappa releases his hand and the boy opens his eyes; he can read no fear in them.
I'll be keeping you now, the kappa says, as he wraps strong hands around the boy's feet.
The boy's eyes widen then.
The bridge doesn't collapse.
Sui-ten doesn't stop till four days later; by then, there is water everywhere, and even frogs from the muddy banks are complaining to anyone who would listen. The trees heave a sigh of relief at the first blue streak in the sky, and slowly the birds make their way back noisy waves. The fox and the tengu are back as well, and they sit in the shadows as they watch humans scurry to and fro. They call for Ren, as if searching for something.
"I wonder what the humans are looking for," the tengu says, bored.
the end