Yahura the Kitsune: In Transience Being

Yahura languished under the floating branches of the sakura trees. Like a master’s brushstrokes, the dark wickering branches embodied the virtues of elegance, balance, and beauty. She leaned against the fence as she dedicated her time to absorbing the citrus-washed spectacle of sky. Her dark, black fox ears drooped in relaxation as she spent the hour in beatitude. No time could pass so quickly just as then, when the fluttering petals from the sakura tree dripped like years in a person’s lifetime. The scattered, fragile petals formed puddles of soft pink, and one felt tempted to lay among its soft masses. The dark cobblestones clacked beneath Yahura’s feet as she strolled down the avenue into town, her tail swishing in delight. As the evening surrendered its loving light, and died out dramatically in its spray of colors, slowly the sky’s life left as it expired to the night’s dark blueish-black. 

The street workers came out and began lighting the street lamps. They lifted a small flame on the end of a 10-foot pole, their lifting and lighting the lamp symbolic of the ever-reaching struggle of mankind to distinguish itself from the disarray of nature. Day to evening, evening to night. Light the lamp, extinguish, then light again. Forever and onward into perpetuity, like the thrusting turning of the waterwheel that powered the town. 

The hanami festival was trickling to a start, with vendors calling out to those passerby who were beginning to arrive, inviting them to indulge in jovial delights. Yahura could smell the sesame oil cooking in the air, the sweet scent of sticky rice mochi and the salty umami of fried fish. At one stall, hot soba noodles swam in a light broth. At another, tempura morsels were battered and fried in bubbling oil to a golden crisp. For as many food stalls there were, there were also as many merchandise stalls: an array of papercraft kites, shadow puppets, and figurines fashioned from wood and clay were for sale. Yahura observed in amusement the rudimentary things humans fashioned in their likeness. At yet another stall, a vendor was selling flowers. She pulled from her pocket a pair of coins and handed them to the vendor. She picked out the arrangement, the ikebana, she preferred, and tucked a blossom into her hair. 

“A fine sweet for a rare beauty!” Called out an elderly man. Yahura strolled over to him and watched as he took melted sugar, wrapped it around a stick, and shaped it into an oh-murasaki butterfly as it cooled. When hardened, he gave this candy to Yahura with a knowing smile, his black, gleaming eyes displaying a soul that defied the age of his wrinkling face. Old man Kaito was one of the few who could see her true form; to most other humans she appeared as one of them. Her kitsune magic veiled her in an unobtrusive disguise: a simple, young beauty with long, black hair. 

A hundred feet down the street a kabuki play was attracting a growing crowd. To the slow, clapping rhythm of the wooden hyōshigi, the play executed its tale of lords and ladies, of gods and mortals, of romance and tragedy. 

Yahura had seen plays and festivals and traditions like these for over a thousand years, and her ancient bloodline allowed her this privilege of longevity. She had observed this tiny village in the corner of Japan grow its legs. Like a baby, the small town she had overseen had been nurtured first to crawl, then to walk. Eventually it would surpass its need for herself and amble on its own. She awaited that day with a small tinge of sadness, like watching one’s child go off into the world fully grown, but she held fast to her sense of duty. 

Yahura walked past the performance and onto the path that led to the village shrine. There, she paid her respects to the kami of the region, and placed her flowers as an offering. Even she, a divine being, bowed to the divinity that surpassed her. 

“I see you have taken in some ways after the humans,” a male voice said. She turned, and saw a pair of bright red fox ears. It was her old friend and mentor Bohanzenen. Bohanzenen referred to Yahura’s flower in her hair. She learned this curious manner from humans, as most kitsune did not bother with trivial cosmetic pursuits. “A fond habit I have picked up,” she replied. He outstretched his arm and she obliged, tucking her own arm into the crook of his. Together they made their way into the town teahouse.

Inside, Bohanzenen made a sign to the middle-aged host. The host nodded and made way for them to enter into a private room. When they were alone, they relaxed and became more liberal with each other. Piping hot tea and a pair of cups sat before them. Since Yahura was both younger and his former student, it was her hierarchical duty to serve him first. She set out his teacup before setting out hers, then poured his tea first before pouring hers. She waited for him to sip first, then she could indulge in the inviting comfort of sencha green tea. Bohanzenen finished his sip and lightly placed the cup down so it would make no noise.

“What’s this?” Bohanzenen’s hand lightly brushed Yahura’s chin before resting on her necklace. 

“A gift,” she replied, “from my husband.” 

“Ah,” he said, in understanding. His hand would stray no more. This meeting then was now simply between student and master. 

“Yes,” she blushed, having forgotten how forward other kitsune spirits could be. “More tea?” She lifted the teapot and gestured in his direction to try and change the subject. A useless act, but Bohanzenen would take the hint. 

Two years ago Yahura met her human husband. His dark brown eyes, his dark hair, and his sumptuous build were so inviting. He was of a finer stock, she thought, and worthy of pairing with. The two courted, and fell in love. Yahura’s version of love was more reserved, albeit still present. She bore the man a single son, a half-kitsune, named Ariharu, and she taught him the ways of both humans and spirits, life and death, the history of his people and the legacy of hers. Half-kitsune could live immortally, but they were not omnipotent. Should he succumb to a grave illness, or become wounded in one of humankind’s many wars, he could die. 

It was her duty to watch over her small village in her territory of Japan. She watched for signs in the stars and the moon, and taught humans the art of astrology and the science of astronomy. She would deliberate with earth, water, wind, and fire spirits, spirits of every sort for there was a spirit for every element and a spirit for every tree, cave, river, and waterfall. For the ocean there were hundreds of spirits under the sea-goddess’ stead. They would churn up the sea and cause horrible tsunamis. 

“Greater are we in the ocean than those on the earth,” decreed the ocean spirits, who were proud of their greatness in numbers. But the ocean spirits would never know the joys of running on one’s legs till exhausted, of the fresh smell of grass and sunlight intermingling, and of the sweet smell of flowers and byakudankō incense burning on anointed days. For all their pride the ocean spirits could not see what they lacked. 

Still, both land and sea spirits clung to their old ways. “Why should we give so freely to the humans?” They complained. “Why should we give them rain and wind when they take from our forests, take our land and take our homes?” She sighed when presented this question. It was true, humans were greedy, but they held within them the spark of ingenuity which spirits lacked. Their sheer will to survive in an inhospitable place was admirable. These people, who like sprouts sprang from the earth, lived and struggled for the betterment of their offspring, who like them would return to the earth. Unlike her and spirits who needed no reason to exist, who simply were and always would be, humans carried within them the favor of the gods. 

Yahura taught Ariharu the responsibilities of a deity’s stewardship, unbeknownst to her husband, who thought both of them were human. She had in mind for Ariharu to take over the care of her village so she could depart back to heaven. It was when her husband reached his middle age he realized his wife and son were not human. Although surprised, he felt blessed to be in the presence of deities. He died of old age, having lived a serene life.  

Then it came one day, the tragedy. It struck like a thunderbolt.

Yahura stepped her way into the bamboo forest to find Ariharu face down, unmoving. Yahura’s heart shattered like a lightning-struck tree. She scrambled over to him and grabbed his arms, trying to wake him. His body was freezing stiff, and it was no use. On his white ankle she saw the snakebite that killed her son. Shock gave way to disbelief, and then melted away into grief. It was rare for a kitsune spirit as ancient as she to cry, and she didn’t even mourn over the passing of her husband. Her husband left the world in his old age, as she expected. This, however, was abrupt, and she wailed for her only son, his forever-long life cut short like a summer blade of grass. 

The day slipped into night, then night into the next day. Yahura carried her son to the giant yorishiro tree in the center of the woods. There she placed a cairn over him. Over the cairn she placed a seal with her name, so the spirits and scavenging animals would not touch his precious body. With her son she buried the necklace her husband gave her. Yahura’s grief transformed her. Her hair lost its luster and turned white. No longer did her crown of hair grow black as the blackest raven feathers, she was now Yahura of the Silver Hair. She chopped her silver hair short and wandered the forest, barefoot, in misery. Her feet grew harsh and chapped, her hair mangled, and her skin dull.

When she finally left the forest, she had grieved for her son for ten years. She emerged from that wretched forest, and walked barefoot to the peak of the crag on its outskirts. There she watched the scintillating hues of the sun vibrate their way up into the air of the early morn. The fan of colors greeted the world with an outstretched body as if hoping to envelope it. Yahura winced at its intensity, for her eyes had grown accustomed to the overcast of the thick bamboo forest. When her eyes adjusted to the light she saw her village below in the distance, a small palmful of civilization amidst the expanse of wilderness begging to swallow it up. 

In the quietude of the morning, she reflected on this recent juxtaposition of what had occurred.

With a final, decisive sigh, she slowly ambled her way down the hill, one foot at a time, aching at the thought of leaving her son. As she descended, she thought about the duties she would return to. When she returned, the village had changed like she did. Old man Kaito had passed, she learned. Human lives were those of the sakura blossom. A momentary bloom of ecstatic fervor for life, only to wither and fall. She wandered in barefoot, a strange sight among the townsfolk, and the people turned their noses up at her. “We do not want a vagrant here,” they said. In the ten years’ time her old home she rented went to a family instead. She wandered the streets, barefoot, penniless, damp, and cold. She huddled on a street and there she slept for innumerable days and nights. 

One day, a familiar pair of red fox ears appeared around the corner. “You are in poor condition, my dear,” Bohanzenen said with a pang of sympathy in his voice. Yahura stood and then half-ran into Bohanzenen’s arms. “Let’s get you taken care of, yes? Have you forgotten so much of our ways? Why did you not take the fox form?” He asked.

“I wanted to suffer as the humans did because of the humanness in my son. To suffer over my half-human son I wanted to do so near what was familiar to him. I could not bear to be alone,” she said.

Bohanzenen gently led her to his estate, where she could recover. She bathed, changed her dress, and slept like a corpse. When she awoke, she peered in the mirror and saw her white hair had grown back to its long length. Her clothes were crisp and new, and her feet were soft as silk. In some ways she had remained the same, but in her heart she had changed. In the forest she had shed her old self like a snakeskin, and in the mirror she saw she had become a new woman. She remembered her pivotal duties to care for humans. In her grief of losing one child she had forgotten her responsibilities over her other children. She changed her name to Asahi and resolved to resume her care for her little Japanese village, so fragile like a painted egg. The illusion of humanity’s triumphs could shatter at any moment, as her life once did. Strengthened in her resolve, she ensured the village would thrive. 

“For I, Asahi of the Morning Sun, do declare today a new day. A new day for change and for the hope of humankind.”