Chapter 6 — Ebisugawa's Heir (Part 1)

This story happened right after Mother got married and moved from Tanukidani Fudō to the Tadasu Forest.

My father’s father—in other words my grandfather—lay on his deathbed, whining about having to depart to the afterlife empty-handed. What he wanted to take with him to the other side was a reconciliation between the Shimogamo clan and the Ebisugawa clan. The long feud between the two houses had been handed down through many generations, and Grandfather was thoroughly tired of it.

“Something must be done before I shuffle off this mortal coil!”

And so he opened a dialogue with the Ebisugawa clan and arranged a reconciliation meeting.

In a ryōtei by the banks of the Kamo River, Grandfather and his sons met with the previous head of the Ebisugawa clan and his daughter. The trilling of evening cicadas were audible in the tatami room as Grandfather expressed his fervent wish for peace, to which the Ebisugawa head quickly assented.

“In actuality, I have been turning an idea over in my mind for some time…”

The idea Ebisugawa proposed was this: to have Shimogamo Sōjirō, Father’s younger brother, marry and be adopted into the Ebisugawa clan. Upon hearing this unexpected proposal Grandfather was dumbfounded, but without a moment’s hesitation Sōjirō stated at once, “I wish to accept this proposal.” It seemed that Ebisugawa and Sōjirō had been holding discussions secretly behind Grandfather’s back.

After some consideration, Grandfather accepted Ebisugawa’s proposal.

Thus, Shimogamo Sōjirō bid his farewells to his father and his brother and left the Tadasu Forest behind to move to the Faux Denki Bran distillery.

Not in his wildest dreams did Grandfather think that this would be the spark that would ignite the most ferocious conflict the two clans had seen, and with a sigh of relief that the long feud was finally over, Grandfather passed on to the afterlife.

But Sōjirō had no intention of ending the feud.

In his heart of hearts he harbored an ambition to crush the Shimogamo clan to dust and show the world that he was a greater tanuki than his brother Sōichirō could ever be. The longstanding desire of the Ebisugawas was thus entrusted to the newest member of the clan.

And eventually, Sōjirō took on a new name: Ebisugawa Sōun.

The events that followed would become infamous throughout Kyoto.

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Accompanied by Kaisei and her brothers, Ebisugawa Sōun was returned to the Faux Denki Bran distillery in Kyoto, where a black mourning flag was draped atop the flagpole.

It had been ten months since he had fled at the end of last year.

When the limousine that carried the body of Sōun passed through the wrought iron gates, the sirens at the distillery let out a long wail of respect, and the tanuki workers doffed their caps and bowed their heads in silent prayer. Once the gates were shut, the distillery shut down for the day.

The news of Ebisugawa Sōun’s passing spread like wildfire through the tanuki world.

After returning from Arima, I popped into the Scarlet Pane on Teramachi Street for the first time in a while. The dim interior was teeming with tanuki gossiping in low whispers. When they saw me they lowered their voices and whispered even more furiously. I shouldered through the nosy crowd up to the counter, feeling like my face was on every wanted poster in town.

The loach-whiskered bartender set a glass of Faux Denki Bran down in front of me. After a moment’s silence, he grinned wryly. “It was you that done it, then?”

“Don’t be stupid,” I growled.

The bartender snorted. “Well, I’ll leave it at that, then. Whatever the truth may be, I’m with you til the end. Sōun was a blaggard, and no mistake.”

“I told you, I didn’t do it!”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so!”

“Now you’ll have to forgive me, but as far as the public is concerned I’m still a loyal Ebisugawa man. Bloke can’t run a bar without a steady flow of Faux Denki Bran, can he? Don’t think of me too badly, now.”

“Some friend you are!”

The bartender filled me in on the conspiracy theory about Ebisugawa’s murder which was making the rounds around town. After being exposed for having tossed the former head of the Shimogamo clan into a stew pot, Ebisugawa Sōun fled town. He leisurely whiled away the days at hot springs, funded by his Faux Denki Bran wealth, but unbeknownst to him the Shimogamo brothers had vowed revenge and were hot on his trail. The eldest, Yaichirō, managed to sniff out Sōun’s hidey-hole at Arima and immediately dispatched his younger brother Yasaburō to finish him off. At the conclusion of a thrilling duel to the death involving a great deal of flying blood and fur, Sōun was finally brought down by an air rifle fired from the dark.

Of course it was all poppycock.

First off, I had no idea where that stick in the mud Yaichirō was supposed to have been hiding his secret mastermind ways for all these years. He was more bewildered by Sōun’s death than anyone.

Following the return of their father from Arima, Kinkaku and Ginkaku had been rushing about making preparations for Sōun’s funeral. They were said to be using the considerable resources at the Ebisugawas’ disposal to plan the most ostentatious funeral service the tanuki world had seen in a long time. No doubt they were attempting to whitewash the venality of Sōun’s twilight years and etch only the memory of his accomplishments into the collective memory of the mourners who would attend.

“D’ye reckon the Shimogamo clan are going to show their faces at Sōun’s funeral?”

“You bet we will. We don’t need any more funny rumors sprouting up.”

“Rough going, sounds like.”

“Still, what kind of tanuki ever had a grand funeral like this?”

“Oh aye? From what I recall, there was a right bacchanal for yer dad when he died.”

I wouldn’t have really called that a funeral, though. Tanuki streamed into the Tadasu Forest from every corner of Kyoto and beyond. No altar or sutra chanting or black drapes or mourning clothes; that night in every corner of the trees, tanuki drank and reminisced about Shimogamo Sōichirō until the sun came up. Everywhere you went you could hear tales of his legendary exploits being discussed. As the night wore on, tanuki all over the forest started an impromptu belly drum, beating away until the trees themselves were shaking. The drumming reverberated deep in our bellies, tickling us brothers until we were all rolling on the floor laughing with Mother. Caught up in it all I started drumming myself until my belly hurt, then fell fast asleep. The next morning when I woke up, I was astonished to find the forest deserted again, as though all those drumming tanuki had only been a dream.

I sipped my glass of Faux Denki Bran, reminiscing about the drumming that had shaken the forest that night.

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The day of Ebisugawa Sōun’s funeral dawned, the sky as clear and perfect as could be for a day at the park.

Beneath the dappled sunlight at the Tadasu Forest, we changed into human forms wearing mourning attire. Even Yajirō, croaking on my shoulder, had the barely perceptible imprint of a bow tie at his throat. There were few tanuki as experienced as Yaichirō when it came to attending funerals, so he lined us all up and inspected our attire with a gimlet eye.

“Stop croaking, Yajirō,” he instructed.

“Dunno what it is, the hiccups just keep coming today…croak!”

We proceeded out of the Tadasu Forest as a family. As we crossed the Demachi Bridge, Mother sighed, “What lovely weather it is today!” leaning on the railing and looking up at the black kites wheeling through the autumn sky. Ever since she had heard of Ebisugawa Sōun’s death, Mother often shut herself up in the Tadasu Forest and sank into her thoughts.

“Both Sō and Ebisugawa have crossed to the other side. How very tired I am of it all!” Mother gazed pensively down at the surface of the Kamo. “Tanuki really are just a bunch of good-for-nothings. Just plain silly!”

We got off the Keihan Line at Jingū Marutamachi and emerged from the underground station. As we strolled down the tree-lined avenue along one of the Biwa canals, we heard the dry crackle of skyrockets and the blaring of a woodwind ensemble.

“Tanuki just don’t know the difference between a funeral and a festival,” sniffed Yaichirō.

The gates of the Faux Denki Bran distillery were draped with the traditional black-and-white-striped curtains of mourning, and many tanuki mourners milled about.

That day about a thousand mourners were supposed to have come to attend the funeral from Kyoto and beyond, proving that the prestige of the Ebisugawas and their distillery were alive and well. Black-clad furballs wriggled all over the grounds, and there to cater to their needs were rows of booths and stalls, like a black-themed Gion Festival. Many of the mourners seemed to be under the impression that any old black attire would do, for in the crowd could be seen a great many fancy tuxedo coattails as well as happi coats bearing the mark of the Tenrikyō sect.

Passing the distillery as well as the innumerable warehouses, we came to the plaza of Inazuma Shrine, which was dedicated to the inventor of Faux Denki Bran, which was where the funeral service would be held. The reason we were able to get so far inside despite the massive crowd probably had something to do with the murder theory that was circulating around: all the other mourners gave us a wide berth, which allowed us to stroll right through the throng without any fuss.

Seeing us in the crowd, Nanzenji Shōjirō and Gyokuran called out to us.

“Well done, getting all the way in here. From the crowds you’d think there was a festival going on!” said Shōjirō.

“Have we made it in time?” said Yaichirō anxiously.

“The priest’s just arrived, so it should be starting any minute now.”

“It’s disgraceful, all these ridiculous rumors floating around. Irresponsible clods, they all ought to be ashamed!”

“Don’t worry about it. Though knowing you, I expect that’s not an option.”

“I don’t wish to bring the Nanzenji clan any trouble.”

“Don’t be such a stranger. Rest assured, neither I nor Gyokuran are bothered by any of it.”

Gyokuran nodded with a serious look. “Not a bit!”

At the back of the square was an ostentatious altar decorated with chrysanthemums, in front of which were arranged folding chairs for the family of the deceased. Sitting there was Kinkaku, who upon turning around and spotting us whispered something no doubt very ill-mannered in Ginkaku’s ear. Beside them was an overturned wicker basket, black as India ink, which I assumed was where Kaisei must have been hiding. Even at a time like this she still refused to show herself.

At last the priest from the tanuki-run temple of Rakutō Kenenji came up and began to mumble sutras, and like a receding tide, the babble of the crowd in the square died away.

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Yasaka Heitarō, the Trick Magister, came to the front, looking grim.

“I can hardly repress the grief that has wracked me since I heard of the death of my dear friend Sōun. All must one day depart from this earth, yet never did I think that one day I would be giving a eulogy on behalf of the tanuki world at the funeral of a tanuki whom I used to play with as a pup.”

Here Heitarō sighed impressively and looked up into the sky. Someone shouted, “Bravo, Trick Magister!” which was obviously quite inappropriate for a funeral and earned the speaker a hiss of reproval.

Yasaka Heitarō resumed, his expression one of exaggerated grimness. “I scarcely need tell you that it was the brilliant invention of Faux Denki Bran in the Taishō period that put the Ebisugawa clan on the map. As you all know, the inspired synergy of electromagnetism and zymurgy ushered in a new age in the world of synthesized spirits, and has gone on to lead countless lords and ladies into many an alcohol-steeped night. And it was none other Ebisugawa Sōun who revitalized the distillery and brought it into the modern age. After leaving the Shimogamo clan to join the Ebisugawas, Sōun left no stone unturned and spared no effort in his pursuit of innovation, leaving an indelible mark upon the illustrious history of Faux Denki Bran. That he was so suddenly whisked away to be with his furry forebears when he had so much left to accomplish here is simply heartbreaking. On behalf of all tanuki I express my gratitude for the incredible legacy he left behind, and reverently offer up a prayer that he finds rest in Paradise.”

Heitarō wrapped up his eulogy, having thoroughly extolled the virtues of Faux Denki Bran while smoothly avoiding any mention of Sōun’s scandal-embroiled later years. Truly, a performance worthy of a seasoned politician.

After the eulogy, the assembled tanuki lined up to offer incense. Proper funerals like this were rare, so everyone milled around uncertainly in front of the altar.

When it finally came time for the Shimogamos to offer incense, a flurry of whispers broke out around the venue. I placed my bow-tied brother on my shoulder and walked up to the altar, looking down upon the still form of Sōun surrounded by flowers in a tiny casket. Sōun looked so small and pathetic, more like a poorly made facsimile than the proud, hated uncle I had once known.

True, I would never forgive him for luring Father into a trap and making him into the Friday Fellows’ stew. But it seemed to me that Sōun had reaped his rewards for that deed, felled by that gunshot in Arima and meeting a sad and lonely end far from home. If he had lived I might still have considered shaving his ass bald, but nothing would come of mocking a furball who would speak nevermore. The Shimogamos were not so twisted as that. Rest in peace, Sōun; namu namu.

As I pressed my palms together, I felt Yajirō squirming around on my shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Yajiro?”

Yajirō silently darted his eyes around wildly, until at last a “Croak!” escaped from his throat, and that single hiccup unleashed the flood. “Croak! Croak croak croak croak!”

Hearing this, Kinkaku and Ginkaku at once got to their feet.

“What are you laughing at, you rascal!?” they cried, their voices full of indignation.

“Now just hold on,” I said, flustered. “You’ve got it wrong. My brother isn’t laughing at all!”

“Just listen to him, croaking away, the wicked frog!”

“Listen a little closer, then. He’s hiccuping!”

“How dare you tell such a baldfaced lie!” Kinkaku was absolutely seething. “You are at our Father’s solemn funeral! See all the weeping faces around you! Just because you are a frog who has quit being a tanuki doesn’t mean you have the right to laugh at our Father’s funeral!”

A buzz went around at Kinkaku’s words.

Yajirō hastily tried to apologize, but his words were buried in a storm of hiccups.

“I_croak_don’t_croak_mean_croak_to_croak_laugh!”

“You croaking villain! Croak at me, will you!” cried Ginkaku.

Still the croaks continued to bubble out one after the other like fizz bubbling to the top of a ramune bottle.

The harder I tried to keep from laughing, the funnier everything seemed. “Croaking villain!” I whispered, against my best judgment, and at that point I couldn’t suppress my giggling any longer. I didn’t want to laugh, not in the midst of a solemn funeral—but “croaking villain” just made me lose it. Yaichirō rushed over and clapped his hand over my mouth, while I did the same to Yajirō.

Kinkaku and Ginkaku yelled, “How dare you! Right in front of Father!” In her basket Kaisei shouted, “Get a grip!” The ceremony seemed all but lost.

Right then, a gentle ponging sound echoed through the square. The sea of mourners parted, and a young monk came striding forth calmly pounding on his belly. His black robes were faded and tattered, and his shaved head was as grimy as an overturned flowerpot that had been left out in the rain. The stench that emanated from his body was almost palpable.

The monk came all the way up to the altar, continuing his belly drumming and not saying a word. With a start of recognition, Yasaka Heitarō started to drum on his belly himself, and the rest of the mourners followed his lead.

The drumming became softer, then louder, like a wave approaching and receding; gradually the tempo increased like it was rushing up a hill; and just as it reached a climax the drumming abruptly stopped. As the last reverberating drumbeat pounded by the mysterious monk faded into the autumn sky a hush settled over the crowd.

“Who’s that?” the tanuki whispered amongst themselves, staring at the enigmatic monk.

The monk silently placed a stick of incense in the sand, then turned to look at Kinkaku and Ginkaku.

“Kurejirō, Kuresaburō. Have you been well?” There was a weight in his voice that belied his youthful appearance.

Kinkaku and Ginkaku were dumbfounded. They’d gotten so used to their nicknames that they seemed to have forgotten what their actual names were.

“Was I Kurejirō?” Kinkaku wondered out loud.

“And who are you?” Ginkaku demanded.

The monk looked down at himself, examining his dirty robe. “You do not recognize me...but that is hardly surprising. I myself never expected to come back.”

“Aren’t you...Kureichirō?” Kaisei suddenly interjected from within the basket. “It’s our big brother. Kureichirō’s back!”

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A week had passed since Ebisugawa Sōun’s funeral.

An autumn rain fell on and off all the morning; the shrine road that threaded through the Tadasu Forest was enveloped in a fine spray, and the tower gate of Shimogamo Shrine looked hazy, like a classical scroll painting.

I was keeping my butt warm snuggled in my bed of dead leaves. The bitter experience of coming down with a bad case of butt shrooms in my youth had taught me that taking care of your butt was the key to staying healthy. The slightest hint of dampness and cold would attract the spirits of colds and fungi, so you needed to take extra precautions during the lengthy rains of autumn.

Mother was out shopping at the Demachi shopping arcade; Yaichirō was meeting with Yasaka Heitarō; and my little brother Yashirō was at the Faux Denki Bran distillery. All I could say was, risking your butt going out on a cold, rainy day like today just meant you weren’t taking your health seriously.

I was nibbling on an _ajari _mochi when I heard a voice in the bushes calling, “Hello, hello!”

It was Gyokuran who emerged from the brush in her tanuki form. “Oh, is it just you, Yasaburō?”

After getting engaged to Yaichirō at the beginning of autumn, Gyokuran often came to the Tadasu Forest, her feet carrying her here before she realized where she was going. They really should have just tied the knot already, but apparently Yaichirō had vowed to have the ceremony after he became Trick Magister. Leave it to Yaichirō to be a stickler for this sort of thing.

“Look at you, lazybones. Planning to roll around in bed all day?”

“Miserable day like today, you’ve got to focus on protecting your butt.”

“You’re far too concerned about your butt. It’s practically a neurosis!” Gyokuran plopped herself down beside me. “The mushrooms were traumatizing, I suppose. Poor little Yasaburō, being taunted by Kinkaku and Ginkaku. You were just about ready to cry!”

“I was not!”

“Goodness, no need to get so angry!” Gyokuran laughed, fluffing her fur. “It was only a joke. You never did cry when you were a pup.”

Hearing that Yaichirō was yet to return from his meeting, Gyokuran pulled out a shogi board from the bottom of the pile of leaves and set up the pieces. “I think tanuki who play shogi on rainy days are so handsome, don’t you?”

But no amount of transparent cajoling could entice me into a game. For starters, I was a horrible player. Abandoning the idea of persuading me, Gyokuran hummed a song through her nose and began to move the pieces around intensely.

“How come you’re using that cheap board when you could just use Father’s board?”

“I couldn’t do that. You know how much Yaichirō treasures it.”

“What belongs to him belongs to you,” I told her.

Gyokuran cackled, her face contorting into a devious expression. “That’s true. But still, I couldn’t.”

During a lull in the rain, I could hear water dripping from the trees all around the forest.

The red fur of fate had led Mother from Tanukidani Fudō to the Tadasu Forest, and now Gyokuran had come here from Nanzenji. I’d never imagined that the girl who had taken me to the proctologist to address the butt shrooms when I was still one of Master Akadama’s pupils would one day become my sister-in-law. You never can know what fate will bring.

Still pondering the shogi board, Gyokuran suddenly murmured, “I hear that Ebisugawa Kureichirō has been chanting sutras in front of his father day and night.”

“That’s monks for you.”

“He used to be such a crybaby, too, and look at what a splendid monk he is now.”

“Did you know him well?”

“I talked to him occasionally, but he was a strange boy. One day he just disappeared from Kyoto when he was still a student of Master Akadama, and I haven’t heard from him since.”

Ebisugawa Kureichirō was Ebisugawa Sōun’s eldest son, and older brother of Kinkaku, Ginkaku, and Kaisei.

According to Gyokuran, Kureichirō had been a very sensitive pup, so very different from that greasy father of his that it was difficult to tell that they were related at all. He was prone to getting lost in thought, staring glassily at the sky or the forest or the rain, and sometimes when he skipped Master Akadama’s classes he would be found carving a statue of Buddha or reading scriptures.

His un-tanuki-like piety and aloofness came to a head when he lost his mother right after Kaisei was born. As the heir apparent of the Ebisugawa clan, Sōun had given him a very spartan education, but Kureichirō’s grey matter simply would not retain any information that had practical use, frustrating both father and son. Day and night the relentless instruction went on, until at last Kureichirō was driven to escape.

“I hope he’s not too messed up,” I said.

“You know, I don’t think he’s a bad tanuki,” Gyokuran said, looking up from the board. “Wait, did you hear that rumbling sound just now?”

I crawled out of bed and pricked my ears. Through the red canopy of leaves, I could hear Raijin, the god of thunder, distantly striding across the sky. Immediately my mind went to Mother shopping at the Demachi shopping arcade. Whenever Lord Raijin shakes the sky, Mother’s transformation comes sliding right off.

I leaped out onto the shrine road, just in time to see a dashing Takarazuka-style youth dashing towards me, shopping bags in hand. As a particularly loud boom of thunder pealed through the sky, Mother tossed the bags aside, reverting to her tanuki form, and jumped straight into my arms.

“Oh, what a fright!” Mother quivered. “That was too close for comfort!”

After that we huddled in the mosquito netting, listening to the thunder passing by.

“Forgive me, dear,” whispered Mother, shaking like a leaf. “Thunder just makes skin come right off!”

“For me it’s the trumpets that tofu sellers blare on the street,” Gyokuran whispered back. “Hearing them sends a shiver right up my spine!”

“You’re all weak. I don’t have a single weakness!”

“Oh, really? But you get all nervous when you’re trapped in a cage, don’t you?”

“Well, besides cages,” I chuckled.

I’ve boasted of having a thick skin ever since I was a kid, which has definitely helped me keep my cool when going toe-to-toe with tengu and the tanuki-devouring Friday Fellows.

Nanzenji Gyokuran put her nose up to the netting and sniffed, drawing in the scent of the rain that pattered down on the forest. “It’s wonderfully cozy huddled here in the mosquito net with everyone.”

“But it gets hot as hell in the summer. You’d better be ready for it, Gyokuran.”

It is a rule in the Shimogamo family that whenever thunder crashes in the sky, we must always rush to our mother’s side. One by one the other brothers made their way back to the forest. First back was Yaichirō, who seeing Gyokuran there in the mosquito net uttered a small surprised cry, beaming with delight. Next, returning from his lab at the Faux Denki Bran distillery, was Yashirō. And last of all was Yajirō.

Yajirō walked up the shrine road, his T-shirt thoroughly drenched, but in the next moment he poofed back into his tanuki form, and after scampering through the trees for a moment or two he suddenly poofed back into a frog. As he approached the mosquito net we cheered for him like he’d just finished a marathon, and Gyokuran lifted the skirt of the netting to let him in.

“Hey, looks like the gang’s all here. Gyokuran, too,” Yajirō commented. “Ah, I really need to stop losing focus whenever I get a glimpse of Mother.”

“You did very well,” said Yaichirō, giving him a rare compliment. “Your practice has paid off.”

“It makes me so happy that you came back for me, Yajirō!” Mother smiled.

“Look, Mother, look!” Yashirō stuck his head outside the netting, sounding happy. “The thunder’s almost gone already. Nothing to worry about anymore!”

The thunder was indeed moving off, and pale sunlight was once more filtering through the trees.

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A thocking sound came from the direction of the shrine road. It seemed to be the sound of a temple block.

We all turned into our human forms and approached the road.

From the south of the Tadasu Forest came a group of black-clad monks, beating on temple blocks as they walked. From the foolish, utterly undignified looks on their faces, it was immediately apparent that these were shapeshifted members of the Ebisugawa Guard Corps. Leading them at the fore was Ebisugawa Kureichirō, while Kinkaku and Ginkaku trailed behind him looking rather put out. The duo were wearing shabby work clothes, with wooden placards hanging from their necks that said, “Your Humble and Obedient Servant”.

When they reached us, Ebisugawa Kureichirō turned toward us and bowed low. “It has been some time, Yaichirō.”

“It has, Kureichirō,” Yaichirō replied. “How many years has it been since you left Kyoto?”

“It has been over a decade, certainly.”

“What have you been all this time?”

“I was journeying. Blown by the wind, soaked by the rain, with tree roots for my pillow—” Kureichirō’s bright eyes narrowed as he looked up into the barren, lonesome branches above. “I was running from myself, that I might find myself anew. I forgot that I was a tanuki, forgot where I came from, forgot the face of my beloved mother, forgot even the face of my father whom I despised so much. And what then was left? Only the whistling of the wind, the shimmering of the forest, the falling rain. Only when you are prepared to discard all that you are can your true self be seen.”

After making this enlightened, un-tanuki-like speech, Kureichirō swiftly prostrated himself on the ground. With a sound like dry beans being thrown, Kinkaku and Ginkaku and the Ebisugawa Guard Corps also got on their knees on the hard gravel. We could only stare in amazement.

His head held low, Kurichiro said, “The innumerable crimes of my departed father, as well as those of my brothers, were outrageous, unpardonable, inexcusable. The Shimogamo clan is right to be angry. A thousand years would yet be insufficient time to atone for those sins. But I implore you, grant these foolish Ebisugawas your pardon; we throw ourselves on your mercy, that the Ebisugawas and the Shimogamos might live in harmony once more.”

He turned around to show us his behind, turning around Kinkaku and Ginkaku as well.

“Now, we ask that you pluck our tails, until your honour is satisfied!”

“Your humble and obedient servant!” shouted Kinkaku.

“Your humble and obedient servant!” shouted Ginkaku.

Now, in all my time as a tanuki, I had never had another tanuki turn his butt to me and ask me to pluck his tail. There was no greater disgrace for a tanuki than to bare his exposed, defenseless tail, which was proof of how far the Ebisugawa brothers were willing to go to abandon their pride. As I was debating whether or not to grab a fistful of fur, Yaichirō said in a voice full of majesty, “Kureichirō, put away your tail and raise your head.”

“No, we ask your judgment be swift!” Kureichirō squirmed. “Come, quickly!”

“Kureichirō, I do not forgive my uncle for what he did. And yet what would pulling out your tails now accomplish? My father has passed on to the other side, as has your father. What matters now is how we decide to live from here on out.”

Kureichirō turned around, straightened his back, and looked at Yaichirō. “How we decide to live…?”

“Shall we live arm in arm, or continue to bare our fangs against one another?”

“...I wish that our two families should never bicker again. I returned here in hopes of ending this senseless feud once and for all.”

“Then from this day on let us fight no more. We are tanuki. Let us live in harmony.”

Yaichirō thrust out his hand.

This was the most dignified thing I had ever seen Yaichirō do in my whole life. It was all so irreproachably dignified that Mother wiped tears from the corners of her eyes, Yashirō let out a soft gasp of emotion, and Yajirō trembled with excitement atop my shoulder. As for Nanzenji Gyokuran, her face was flushed with such adoration that it looked like she might keel over on the spot.

Ebisugawa Kureichirō stood up and gripped Yaichirō’s hand firmly.

Almost as if it had been waiting for that moment, a gust of wind whooshed through the gate, stirring up a bright storm of fallen leaves and shaking the Tadasu Forest out of its dull torpor. The clouds parted, letting through a single ray of sunlight to illuminate this historic reconciliation.

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A few days after the historic reconciliation of the Shimogamo and Ebisugawa clans, I found myself hurrying across the Aoi Bridge and rushing through the Demachi shopping arcade. The sun crossed the sky quicker and quicker as autumn wore on, and if you weren’t paying attention the day would slip away from you.

Approaching Master Akadama’s normally gloomy apartment I was surprised to find the door ajar, with light and lively conversation audible within.

“Shimogamo Yasaburō, at your service.”

I left the shopping bags on the kitchen counter and peeked into the inner tatami room.

There I saw Master Akadama sitting at a kotatsu with a white cape draped around him like a teruteru bōzu doll; and brandishing a large pair of shears near his head was Benten. With a snipping sound like she was cutting grass, Benten was snipping away at the Master’s long, unkempt hair. The Master’s bristly strands were the bane of barbershops the city over, and whenever the job was done by tanuki it took a full day to shear off his locks.

Benten beamed when she spotted me. “If it isn’t Yasaburō?”

“Hello, Benten. Hard at work cutting hair, I see.”

“Hehe. Just doing my duty to the Master. Shall I cut your hair as well?” Benten smiled wickedly, snicker-snacking the shears above the Master’s head, but I knew that if I allowed Benten to have her way with those blades I might as well kiss every last strand of hair on my body goodbye. When I demurred on hands and knees, Benten simply let out an “Oh,” and continued to cut the Master’s hair.

Tidying things up in the kitchen, I spotted a bottle of Akadama port wine with a bow tie around it and a tag that read “Ebisugawa Kureichirō”.

“So Kureichirō’s come to visit, has he?”

“He came to apologize to me for his long absence,” said the Master.

“What an awfully well-mannered tanuki.”

“I’d always thought him an incense-smelling little crybaby, but the boy seems to have grown a bit of spine now. And he tells me that he has reconciled with the Shimogamos, is that not so?”

“We’ll see how it goes,” I muttered.

“Friendship is beau-ti-ful,” sang Benten as she waved the shears.

“Just so, just so,” Master Akadama agreed.

“Finished!” Benten cried out at last, tossing away the shears and dusting off her hands. Master Akadama grinned, seemingly pleased with the avant-garde sculpture that now adorned his head.

While I vacuumed the tatami, Benten sat on the windowsill, picking hairs from her arms and blowing them outside. Tonight she was wearing an alluring jet-black dress like she was attending some fancy dinner banquet. The spiky-headed Master Akadama burrowed into the kotatsu, gazing spellbound at Benten and gnawing on a tansan-senbei like an oversized porcupine. Benten had brought the crackers back from Arima, and the Master savoured them like they were some incomparable delicacy, refusing to share any with me.

After I finished vacuuming and got in the kotatsu, Benten turned around. “Yasaburō, have you found everything for the Friday Fellows’ stew yet?”

“Just you wait and see. It’s going to be absolutely perfect.”

“If you need any help catching a tanuki I’d be more than happy to give you a hand.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. Just let me handle everything.”

Benten chuckled. “If it really comes down to it all we’ll have to do is put you in the pot. Simple!”

“What stew?” the Master frowned.

Benten lowered her voice as if letting him in on a great secret. “It’s tanuki stew. Yasaburō’s joined the Friday Fellows.”

The Master rolled his gaze onto me. “What foolishness has gotten into your head now?”

“It’s just my fool’s blood talking, you see…”

“There simply is no curing a fool. It beggars belief!”

I quietly refilled the Master’s cup with Akadama port wine.

Benten nimbly came down from the windowsill and draped a shawl that resembled an angel’s plumage around her graceful shoulders. “Well, Master, I must be off.”

“But, the night is yet young. Pray, say not such lonesome things!”

Only smiling wordlessly at the Master’s sad entreaty, Benten bent over and looked at a mirror on top of the kotatsu. Giving her coiffure a pat, she scowled at her reflection as if it belonged to someone else. “Tonight I have a rendezvous at Kiyomizu-dera,” she said ominously.

“A rendezvous!?” The Master’s sake cup shook in his hand. “With whom?”

“You’d be angry if I told you.”

“Surely it is not...him? Is’t him?”

“Do be careful not to choke on that cracker.” Leaving behind a mysterious smile, Benten drew her shawl around her and departed.

Those barely veiled words were all but assured to turn the Master green with envy. He fell silent, refusing to touch his bento box.

I swept out some of the Master’s prickly hairs from beneath my butt and thought to myself. A rendezvous—that had to mean a romantic tryst. And from the way she had hinted at things, the other party must have been—

“Is she talking about the Heir?” I mumbled.

“That snot-nosed, womanizing scalawag!” Master Akadama growled. “Surely he cannot have beguiled my innocent Benten?”

Glossing over the matter of Benten’s supposed innocence for the moment, the rendezvous surely meant trouble.

In a moment Master Akadama began to make ready to set out. He bundled up in his favourite padded coat which Benten had presented to him last year, and took in hand the cane I had given him for Christmas.

“I am going to Kiyomizu-dera. You will come with me.”

“Of course, sir.”

　　　　　　　◯

With all the tourists gawking at the fiery autumn leaves at Kiyomizu-dera it almost felt like a festival.

The cane clacked loudly on the stone as Master Akadama walked along the narrow slope, passing narrow cafés and gift shops selling pottery. Whenever someone pointed and laughed at his extraordinarily spiky hairdo, he would chase them off with an impatient wave of his cane.

“Fools, as far as the eye can see!” he huffed. “We will never find Benten in this crowd.”

“No need to worry. Benten always makes a splash.”

On the other side of the dark mass of people before the front gate, the Niōmon gate and the pagoda came into view.

We mingled with the crowd and entered the temple grounds, looking for Benten. Scarlet leaves flamed in the beams of spotlights.

“That’s quite a sight,” I said appreciatively, looking up at them.

“Ridiculous,” snorted the Master, though his mood improved when a couple of passing coeds complimented him on his hairdo.

“Why don’t you stay here and drink some amazake? I’ll keep looking for her.”

I sat the Master down on a camp stool at a café and ascended to the famous veranda.

I found Benten and the Heir without too much trouble. After all, they stood out like sore thumbs.

They were standing on the veranda admiring the sparkling nighttime view. The Heir was wearing a jet-black tuxedo, looking every bit the former expatriate he was. Not to be outdone, Benten stood beside him in that voluptuous jet-black dress. They were like swans among ducklings, and even the most avid leaf-watchers found it hard to ignore them.

I shapeshifted into a little girl and approached them, listening in on their conversation.

“Look,” said Benten, leaning over the handrail and pointing at Kyoto Tower.

The Heir grimaced and shook his head. “...How very unsightly.”

“Really? I think it’s cute, like a candle. Whenever I’m feeling lonesome, I go up and sit on the tip of the tower. It helps me feel better.”

“It would seem that eyesore has at least one use, then.”

“What a contrarian you can be. Just like the Master.”

“That sounded like an insult.”

“I intended it as one.”

Benten and the Heir smiled at one another, but their respective gazes were cold, like two masks staring each other down. It certainly did not resemble very much a saccharine lovers’ tryst.

Benten reached out her pale hand as if stroking those twinkling lights, explaining the amusements of modern Kyoto to the Heir, whose knowledge of nightlife was a century out of date. Every so often a murderous aura started to flow forth from Benten, but each time this happened the Heir would tamp it down with a quick glare. To the casual eye, they simply looked like an anachronistically dressed couple sharing a romantic evening, but in reality it was a cutthroat battle of wills. My tail twitched uneasily as I listened, for it felt like standing on top of an unexploded bomb that might go off at any moment.

At last the Heir sighed and leaned forward onto the handrail, looking into the distance with a weary expression. “Enough of this, madam. This is a waste of time and energy.”

“...Perhaps you’re right.” From her breast Benten produced a long string. She dangled it from one end, letting it sway and glimmer in the night wind.

“What is that?”

“I made it from the Master’s hairs. I was planning to strangle you with it.”

“Try it, if it so pleases you.”

“You never gave me a chance. Really, you are _such _a bore,” Benten pouted, letting the strand float away on the wind. For a moment that sturdy whisker of my mentor’s glinted silver in the glare of the spotlights, before vanishing into the darkness. With a bored look on her face, Benten leaned on the handrail and sighed, just like the Heir had done. She looked like a little girl who had just had her toy taken away.

“Thank you for accompanying me today,” Benten said, her voice sounding as bored as her expression. “It was truly a pleasure.”

“Given the choice between accompanying you and having my neck wrung in my sleep, this was certainly the lesser evil.”

“...Oh how high and mighty thou art!”

“Quite so. Certainly higher and mightier than you.” The Heir straightened, taking in the lights with his gaze, and spoke. “Madam, allow me to give you a warning. Abandon the idea of becoming a tengu. That path holds nothing for you.”

“Are you telling me I should become like you? Or that I should become nothing at all?”

“I do not go so far, but there are many other paths to take.”

“That’s very easy for you to say.”

“I say what I say out of the kindness of my heart.”

“If you’ve fallen for me, why don’t you just say so?”

“I would rather not hear such idiotic things.”

“And I would rather take the advice of a tanuki than listen to you!”

The Heir turned white and closed his mouth.

“What a half-hearted little man you are,” Benten smirked, poking the Heir’s chest. “Why did you come back? To this country, this town?”

The Heir’s eyes shone coldly, but he did not answer. Instead he turned on his heel, walked away from the railing, and disappeared into the crowd.

Benten surveyed the temple grounds, still with that bored look on her face. Below her, a sea of red leaves stretched along. Beyond them the Koyasu Pagoda rose up from the forest like a phantom in the spotlights. For a moment Benten leaned forward as if she was about to float off the veranda, but she thought better of it and walked away.

I followed her down from the veranda back to the cafe.

Master Akadama was dozing on his stool, his spiky head drooping. A long string of saliva trailed all the way to the red leaves on the ground. Benten put her hand on his shoulder. The Master looked up blearily, before his face rearranged itself into shock, as if he was a kid who had been caught doing something naughty.

“What are you doing here, Master? Benten asked kindly. “You’ll catch a cold. Come on, back home we go.”