It seemed appropriate to Chichiri for a servant of Suzaku to be consumed by flame himself. He did not dwell on this, nor on his own transient nature. Instead, he wrapped his kesa around Tasuki’s body and walked to Mount Leikaku, the dead man thrown over his shoulder. Tasuki had lost weight in his sickness, and become thin and frail. That would not do. Before he reached the bandit stronghold, Chichiri cast a simple illusion on the body, one that would make his friend seem almost alive, strong and vibrant.
Kouji was the first to recognize him, and the first to see his former leader’s corpse. When the cloth was unwrapped, he first stared, then pleaded, then wept. Chichiri marveled at this. It was something that had always puzzled him about Tasuki as well, how a grown man could weep without shame. Perhaps bandits simply had stronger bonds with each other than normal people.
Tasuki would have delighted in his funeral pyre. It flickered up into the night, red and orange like Tasuki’s hair before it had turned white with age and grief. Chichiri’s own hair was almost snow-white as well, only scattered strands of blue remaining. The heat was overpowering, as if his friend was saying a last farewell to those he had loved. The flames danced with the bandits, drank with them, roaring up when sake was spilled too close to the base of the fire. The men laughed and drank, danced and sung, celebrating Tasuki’s life the way it had been lived.
Through it all, Chichiri and Kouji stood side by side, watching as the fire slowly wore away at their friend until he was no more. It was then that Kouji spoke. Kouji’s hair had turned not white, but gray.
“I never... Suzaku, I thought I’d die first, you know?”
Chichiri nodded. He knew.
“Can’t believe it. He was always burning with life. Even when he was just a kid, he was always running around, getting into fights, and that mouth of his... I’ve seen sailors who couldn’t hold a candle to him. Hyperactive little brat.”
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.
“I guess you have to burn out eventually, though, don’t you?”
Chichiri said nothing. Kouji sank to his knees and touched his forehead to the ground. He alone of all the bandits had known Tasuki before he was Tasuki, when he had still been a fireball-child named Genrou who drank too much and fought too much and did everything too much except think. It was that child whom Kouji was mourning now, and so Chichiri took up the task of mourning Tasuki. He steepled his fingers and stared into the fire.
The bandits had all passed out or gone to bed when he moved next. Dawn was breaking. He silently apologized to his friend. The mask he left on, as he had throughout the night: it was not yet time to remove it. He took his leave of Kouji, who was still on his knees, clutching the tessen and mourning Tasuki now. Then he bowed once and turned his back on the ashes of his oldest friend.
He traveled to the capitol city of Eiyo and gained admittance to the palace by baring his left knee. A private audience with the Emperor and his Honorable Mother was quickly arranged. When all three had been seated in the Emperor's private study, the Emperor spoke.
“Are we correct in assuming, Chichiri-seishi, that you wish to learn about our father in his youth?”
Chichiri nodded.
“You must know that our father died before we were born. Therefore, we cannot speak of him with any authority. Our Honorable Mother would be more suited to provide the information you seek.”
The Emperor rose to exit the study, but his Honorable Mother motioned him to stay.
“Please, my son, sit with us. You too should know your father. However, Chichiri-seishi, during all the time I knew Hotohori as a man, you did as well. Thus, I fear any information I provide would be redundant to you.”
The Honorable Mother motioned with her hand, and a servant was quick to answer. She disappeared, and conversation turned to other topics until she returned, carrying a withered old woman on her back. She was placed gently upon a pillow on the floor. The Honorable Mother gestured to the old woman and spoke.
“Hotohori’s nursemaid. Please, Grandmother, tell us of the old Emperor when he was a child.”
The old woman sucked in a whistling, gurgling breath through the gaps where teeth had been.
“... Saihitei was a nice kid, he was. Always studying, always studying to be Emperor one day. And he was, you know. He was the Emperor.”
After a pause of several breaths, she spoke again, faintly, as though she were still afraid after all this time to be heard.
“Never liked that mother of his, though. Did not like her one bit. When I think about what she did to the other wives’ children--now, what did she do to them? Can’t remember for the life of me...”
She looked at Chichiri with eyes long blinded and asked if he knew what Hotohori’s mother had done to his competition for the throne. When Chichiri shook his head no, she continued.
“No, he doesn’t know, think he would, he was here, he knew him. Can’t see him, but it can’t be anyone else. They were all too special, they were; couldn’t mistake them for an-y-one else. Saihitei was special like them, he had that mark on his neck, and even if he wasn’t Emperor you couldn’t forget who he was.”
The old woman cackled and winked at Chichiri, pointing a gnarled finger at him and shaking it.
“You were him once. Everyone told me I was crazy, but I knew--I told you you can’t mistake Saihitei, and I didn’t, he was off with those two girls and you were there covering for him. Shame on you!”
She laughed again. When she was finished she beckoned Chichiri to lean closer. He did, kneeling on the floor beside her. She whispered now, a secret for Chichiri alone, though her voice carried to the others in the room as well.
“She was in love with him, the one with the braid. Was always trying to catch his eye. Always felt bad for her, ‘cause he was loving someone else. He loved the other one, you see, Suzaku no Miko, had since he was eight years old and’d just found out about her.”
She wheezed.
“Isn’t that just the saddest story? She loves him, and he loves her, and she... and...”
The old woman slumped forward, her thready gray hair brushing Chichiri’s shoulder as he caught her. She was only exhausted, not ill, and the maid hoisted her up onto her back again and left to take her to her bed. The Emperor sat unblinking until his mother patted his hand comfortingly.
“You see, my son, there is sometimes a necessity for marriage without love, for the sake of the kingdom. Your father loved Suzaku no Miko until the minute he died.”
He turned to look at her, eyes full of grief.
“Why, Mother? You told me you loved him; you told me that many times. How could you stand to let him love someone else?”
Houki closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. Her hair had not yet turned, but when it did it would be gray.
“Because that is what I had to do. It was painful, yes, for both of us, but the kingdom needed an heir and its Emperor needed a friend. I provided both.”
She opened her eyes and gazed into those of her son.
“Do you understand, Boushin?”
Chichiri observed the silence between them carefully. They were debating, compromising; after a moment, Boushin dropped his eyes and Houki turned to Chichiri.
“I hope, Chichiri-seishi, that you have found what you were seeking.”
He nodded. He had found part of what he was seeking, and the rest was to come. The Emperor stood then and bowed deeply.
“We thank you for honoring us with your presence, Chichiri-seishi, and we hope that your travels will keep you safe.”
Chichiri took Hotohori’s sword out of his kesa and presented it to the Emperor. Hotohori’s chi lingered in the blade, making his presence almost tangible. As he grasped it, the son of its owner shed one tear, then slowly allowed himself to smile.
“Something... I remember something, it’s so familiar...”
The Emperor continued to stare at the weapon, while his Honorable Mother mouthed words of thanks as she stood to join her son. Chichiri bowed twice, once to the Emperor and once to his Honorable Mother, and escorted himself back out onto the streets of Eiyo.
The house was on the outskirts of the city. Chichiri knocked, and the door was opened by a man his age with balding gray hair mixed with violet.
“Who is--oh, it’s you. Come in, I was just about to eat dinner.”
Chichiri followed the man to a long table with two chairs and sat down in one. His host set a bowl of rice before him and apologized for the plain fare. He ate with him, then listened.
“How long has it been? About a year after that big war with Kutou, so... twenty years, maybe. Let’s say twenty.”
Chichiri nodded. It had in fact been twenty-two years, but that was irrelevant.
“Suzaku... twenty years alone in this house. Seems like a long time, but it wasn’t, not really. All you have to do to forget the present is focus on the past, you know? Doesn’t take much effort at all, especially in my case.”
He sighed and dropped his eyes to the table, to his gnarled hands.
“I miss them, so much. The last time I can remember being happy was when Kourin was alive, and we’d all go out to play on the road and if anyone bothered us Ryuuen’d throw a cow at them.”
The chuckle was affectionate and genuine, but the mirth soon fled.
“Funny how fate and chance work against you. Because one lousy wagon driver couldn’t control his horses, I lost the people I loved the most.”
He looked directly at Chichiri.
“But you already knew that, didn’t you? He would’ve told you, I think.”
He stared at the smiling mask for a second longer, then sighed and turned his gaze again to the table.
“We always said we’d run this place together, you know, Kourin and Ryuuen and I. We’d get married and have lots of children, and we’d all bring our families to live here. It was going to be perfect, our whole family living under one roof, Ryuuen and I dealing with the other merchants while Kourin entertained our guests. Can you imagine what that would be like?”
A bitter smile crossed the old man’s face, deepening the wrinkles created by age and grief.
“But it’s just me, alone in this house. Some days I think I’m just passing time until I die and I can see them again. You know the feeling.”
Chichiri nodded. He knew.
The old man said nothing more. Chichiri took a set of bracelets out from his kesa and gave them to him. He took them without a word, and Chichiri took his leave of his host. When he had reached the doorway, the old man spoke again, and Chichiri paused.
“These--these are Ryuuen’s, aren’t they? They feel like him.”
Chichiri turned. The old man was gently fondling the bracelets, tears flowing down his face.
“Ryuuen... he thought he should be Kourin, and he did become her, didn’t he. So, I guess I have both of them with me now.”
The old man was silent then, and Chichiri left and traveled to Jozen.
The city was clean and prosperous, with very little clutter in spite of its size. One house had been abandoned, and it was to here Chichiri made his way. Despite its long emptiness, the house was well-maintained; what little dust there was stayed put even when he trod over it. He passed through a parlor and climbed a flight of stairs to reach the library, where the youngest of the seishi had felt most at home. There was a woman there, perhaps twenty years old, dusting the books. She turned to him when she heard his footsteps.
“... you’re one of them, right? One of Suzaku’s Chosen?”
Chichiri nodded.
“Thought so. I’ve never seen any of you before, but they say you can always tell. Guess they were right.”
She started dusting again, carefully pulling each book out of the shelf to get at the dust in between them.
“My uncle was one of you, you know. He was one of the ones that died trying to get the whatchamacallit, the thing that appears when you summon a god... doesn’t really matter, does it? Nah. So yeah, there’re all these stories about my uncle and the rest of you. I grew up hearing all about you, you know?”
Chichiri knew. He’d heard several of the stories himself, and found them to be accurate, for the most part.
“Guess that’s why I keep up this old house, out of respect for him. My dad said he was thirteen when he died. My little brother’s thirteen now, and I can’t imagine him doing half the things my uncle did. Did he really kill himself, just to get at that spirit?”
Chichiri nodded. That was part of the reason. However, Chiriko had also cared deeply for his fellow seishi and his miko, and had taken his life to protect them, rather than out of hatred for Miboshi.
“Wow. I... I can’t even imagine that, what it must’ve been like.”
She paused in her dusting and shuddered, then continued.
“I can see him doing it, though, from what my dad says about him. Says he was a real nice kid, never fussed or tantrumed like other kids do. He was like a grown-up in a little kid, or a little kid in a grown-up; Dad says he was very sweet, and smart too. Always studying, that one. Loved books, loved reading, he was gonna go places in life. Dad says he would’ve loved to have little nephews and nieces.”
She paused.
“He doesn’t say it, but Dad misses him more than anything, even more than Mom, I think.”
There was a long pause, and Chichiri waited. The woman took a deep breath, rubbed her eyes. Then she removed another book from the shelf and wiped it with reverence.
“Sorry about that. It’s just... from what dad says, he was one of those special people, you know, the kind that change your life when you meet them. I wish I could’ve met him, even if I was just a kid.”
Chichiri removed a long scroll from his kesa and waited politely when the woman started talking again.
“So that’s why I keep this old house up. I guess I just feel like a part of it all when I’m here, almost like reading these books is letting me meet him. My husband thinks it’s ridiculous, but he’s an idiot. What does he know? Those Hokkanese summoned their god more than two hundred years ago; there’s no way any one of those seishi was his uncle.”
The woman finished the last book on her current row and started on the next one. It was an appropriate time, so Chichiri handed the scroll to her. She blinked, then looked at him.
“This was his?”
Chichiri nodded. The woman smiled widely.
“I don’t know how to thank you. Dad’ll be so happy...”
She bowed deeply. Chichiri bowed as well, then left the house and the city.
The underbrush tore at his clothing and face as he made his way through it; every rest stop found him patching some rip or creating a new mask. Eventually he came to a river with a small village clinging to it. Near the river were the remains of a small house washed away by flood many years ago. He contemplated it in silence for a time before that silence was interrupted by a gray-haired old man hobbling up to stand at his side.
“... there used to be a family that lived here. Nicest sort of people you could find, the two of them and their kids. Decent, every last one of them. Fate is a tricky bastard, though; there was a flood, oh, thirty years ago, maybe, or twenty-eight. Every one of them ‘cept the oldest boy drowned. Shame.”
Chichiri nodded, and the old man continued.
“Now, you may be wondering why I’m telling you all this. I’ll tell you why. I took that boy in, raised him like he was my own. He became a doctor, he did, went around to all the villages healing up the sick folk. He had this power, you see; when he touched people, they got better, and even though it took a lot out of him to do it every day, he did. That’s the kind of man he was, he’d do anything if it’d help somebody.”
The old man sighed deeply, and the wrinkles in his face darkened for a second.
“Guess that’s why my Shouka loved him so much. Wouldn’t you know it, when she died, she kept on trying not to. Said she was waiting for him. It wasn’t about the healing, she didn’t care about that; she just wanted to see him one last time.”
He paused.
“One last time. I never saw such love in a woman. Never saw it in a man, either, least not until he came back and saw her dead. He never talked much since his family died, but after that, it was like he was a ghost; didn’t say nothing to nobody. And then he left, and a couple years later, I hear these stories about this great healer who was one of Suzaku’s Chosen, and I say to myself ‘I knew it!’ You could always tell he was special, and if you don’t mind me asking, you’re special in the same way, aren’t you?”
Chichiri nodded, as did the old man.
“Yeah, thought so. So then I hear he died. And at first I can’t believe it, you know? ‘Cause it doesn’t make sense, if someone can heal themselves like he could how could they die? But then I hear how he died, and it all makes sense. Gave up all of his chi to bring some people back to life. Didn’t matter if they were ours or theirs, just healed them all like they were his brothers.”
The old man gazed down at the lake, and Chichiri did as well, contemplating Mitsukake’s death.
“Now there’s a man I can respect.”
They stood there staring at the river and the ruined house beside it for hours, until the old man complained of an aching back. Chichiri stopped him before he could leave and gave him a pot of water from his kesa. One drop of this water would heal any wound if applied directly, or cure any sickness if ingested. The old man looked at Chichiri, smiling.
“This was his? But there isn’t very much of it, is there... don’t worry, I’ll make sure it gets to the people who need it; that’s what he would’ve wanted. Thank you very much, Seishi-san.”
He cut across the country for a day to reach the small hovel. There was no greeting waiting for him; the only inhabitants of the place were mice and overgrown flora. He did not enter the house. Instead, he walked behind it to a place where five graves lay.
He studied each one silently.
In each grave lay an innocent, battered to death by forces beyond their control. He contemplated them each in turn; he had only met them once, but it was enough. They had loved their brother and their eldest son dearly, and would have had him stay with them for eternity if they could. It was enough, to know this much.
He had nothing of Tamahome’s to offer them, but the little one would be expecting a present. He knelt in the dirt at the foot of the graves and dug with his hands until the hole was deep enough. Then he removed two ribbons from his kesa, similar to the ones Miaka and Tamahome had used to tie their hair. He tied them together in a bow, then placed them in the hole and covered them with dirt.
He continued to kneel for several hours, then stood and traveled back to the river.
After a day’s journey, he came to another village huddled along the riverbank. This village was larger than the one he had previously visited, but he was able to locate his destination within it easily. The flood damage to the old house was severe, and would have to be repaired to make the house livable again. He entered the house.
It wasn’t dusty; the air was too humid this close to the river for dust to occur in any form except damp clumps. There was no furniture in the house. In fact, there was nothing at all except the dirt floor, the four walls, and Chichiri himself. Chichiri removed his fishing pole from his kesa, then removed the kesa itself, folded it, centered it to the south, and bowed. He went outside to catch his dinner.
The sun was not yet down, but it was very close. He sat down by the river, feet dangling, and cast his line. Once he had settled his pole firmly in the ground beside him, he looked around. There were two small children by the side of his house, a boy and a girl, whispering and giggling. He watched as they looked around and missed seeing him by the grace of the reeds obscuring him from their view. They drew closer and, with the infinite shyness a first love brings, the boy kissed the girl on the cheek.
Chichiri laughed, startling the children, who looked around frantically for the source of the voice in a place they thought was empty. They relaxed when he stood, revealing to them that he wasn’t a reed-spirit out to catch naughty children and gobble them up. He made his way out of the reeds, and the children ran to meet him. As they came close, he could see that they were exact images of Kouran and Hikou as children, and he wondered for a moment whether he could manage to live in a place where he had suffered so much. He quelled the thought; that was long past.
“What’cha doin’ here, Mister? Why’re you dressed so funny? Why were you down by the river?”
The little boy spoke rapidly, while his companion bided her time. Chichiri kneeled down so he was on their level.
“Whoa, not so many questions at once, no da! I can’t remember too much anymore! But here are your answers: I’d like to live here, I’m a monk, and I was fishing no da!”
The children laughed, and Chichiri laughed to hear them.
“You sure talk funny, Mister!”
“And what’s so funny about the way I talk, no da? Maybe you’re the one who talks funny na no da!”
“Hey, I don’t talk funny!”
The boy crossed his arms and fixed Chichiri with what might have been a threatening glare had its sender not been three feet tall. Chichiri pressed his lips together to keep from laughing at the absurdity of it, and before he could give in to his impulse, the little girl spoke.
“Is that your real face?”
The mirth fled from Chichiri, and he turned his head to face the girl, contemplating the answer that would make the most sense to her.
“It was for a while, no da. But pretty soon it won’t be.”
The boy snorted.
“That’s impossible! How can you change your face?”
Chichiri reached up and removed his mask for the first time since Tasuki’s death.
“Like this, no da!”
Startled, the children jumped away and stared at him, taking in his new appearance. Chichiri smiled at them in turn, then turned his gaze to the mask and remembered a promise he had made to a friend. The girl came closer to him and the boy soon followed, both remaining completely silent, as if they could sense the solemnity Chichiri was experiencing.
“I know you don’t like it, Tasuki, but I’m not hiding any more. As long as I wear this mask I am Suzaku no Shichiseishi Chichiri. It is a way for me to remember and honor our fellow seishi, for I feel their loss as keenly as you do. They gave their lives to defend Konan and summon Suzaku, and it would cheapen their devotion to give up being Chichiri now when the Empire still needs its seishi. However, I promise you this, my friend: when Chichiri is no longer needed, this mask will be gone.”
He stared at the mask for a second longer, then focused his chi and burnt it to ash.
“Wow, cool!”
“How’d you do that, Mister?”
He smiled, then flung the ash up into the air. A quick burst of chi turned the particles into multicolored fairy lights that fluttered around the children playfully. As they squealed in delight, he realized that he was their new favorite person.
When the lights died down after several minutes, the sun had almost set. The little girl mentioned this, and said they had to get home. The boy would not be swayed so easily, however.
“Hey, Mister, you’re one of those people Grandpa tells those stories about, aren’t you? One of those--those--”
“Seishi. Jin, we have to get home or my mama will be angry.”
“--One of those seishi, aren’t you?”
He paused for a moment.
“No, I’m not, no da. And you two should be getting home no da. But I gotta ask you something first: what are your names, no da?”
The children looked at each other, then back at him.
“We’re not supposed to talk to strangers.”
He blinked. With the infallible logic of children, the little girl came up with a solution.
“But if we know his name, he’s not a stranger, right? What’s your name, Mister?”
“My name, no da?”
He paused for a second, thinking.
“I’m Houjun, no da! Pleased to meet you na no da!”
He did a little half-bow, and the children returned it.
“I’m Jin, and she’s Meiran. We live next door to each other, on the horse road. Please come and visit us! Please!”
“I will, no da! And Jin, I have a favor to ask of you: your father is the mayor of this village, right?”
Jin stared at him in amazement.
“How did you know?”
Houjun tapped his temple mysteriously.
“That’s a secret, no da. Either way, would you please tell him that Houjun Li is living in the abandoned house down by the river, and plans to make his living catching fish na no da?”
Jin agreed, and the children started off towards home. Houjun stood to retrieve his pole (and hopefully dinner), but when he turned towards the bank he was tackled from behind by an enthusiastic Meiran. After managing to disentangle her, he knelt down again.
“What are you doing, no da? You’ll be late for dinner no da!”
It was very dim by this point, but Houjun could swear the girl was blushing.
“Houjun-san, would you... would you teach me magic? I wanna do magic like you!”
He laughed in delight at the shy request.
“Sure, but not tonight, no da! You gotta get home!”
“Tomorrow, then?”
Houjun smiled and agreed. The girl hesitated for a moment, then kissed him on the cheek and ran to join her companion.
Bemused, Houjun watched the children until they ran out of sight, then stood and pulled in his line. There was a large catfish on it; he would eat well that night. He wrapped the line around the pole and made his way to his front door, where he watched as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon.
For the first time in many, many years, he sighed in bliss.
Houjun Li continued to live for many years in the village of his birth. After six months of living on the fringe of society due to distrust on the part of the town elders, he was accepted by them, and they thereafter frequently consulted him for his much-renowned wisdom. He made his living exchanging the fish he caught for rice and other necessities, though he grew his own vegetables once he had the chance to plant his garden.
It was generally acknowledged among the townsfolk that he was “someone special,” and speculations were made as to whether or not he might be the last of Suzaku’s Chosen. When asked about this, however, he denied it with such an air of conviction that he was never questioned again, and he remained merely “someone special.”
He had an abnormal fondness for cats, and adopted every stray he found, It was rumored that he had more than one hundred, though the size of his house disputes this theory.
He continued to perform magic tricks for the children, and the children’s children when they were born. Because of his fondness for children and his talent at handling them, he became godfather to many of them, not just in the younger generations, but the older ones as well. He took these duties very seriously, and ended up raising a total of five girls and three boys after their parents had died. Even to the children he had not adopted, he was known as “Grandfather Li,” who always had a tale to tell or a shoulder to cry on.
At the age of sixty-three, he bequeathed his kesa to Meiran Long, telling her it had once belonged to Suzaku no Shichiseishi Chichiri and teaching her the use of its powers, which have thus far remained secret from the general public. Currently, Meiran uses the powers Li taught her to protect the village from whatever disasters befall it, be it flood or drought or wild dog.
Houjun Li died in the thirty-second year of the Emperor Boushin’s reign at the age of sixty-six. His death was attended by Meiran and Jin Long,who were considered his oldest friends in the village. His last words remain a secret, but the couple reported that he was smiling when he died.
