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Thirty-Nine

Inari had now been in Fan's strange home for over a day, and she still knew nothing about her hostess. The scarred woman seemed to spend most of her time in solitary contemplation; either within the polished hollows of her underground cavern, or outside on a narrow ledge of rock that overlooked nothing but a gorge filled with bonewort and stones. Inari knew the values of meditation, so she did not interrupt Fan during these periods. However, when the woman returned to prepare food for their evening meal, Inari ventured a question.

"How long have you been here?" she asked tentatively.

Fan smiled.

"For a long time, I think. But I'm really not sure. It's hard to measure time here, isn't it? Or perhaps you don't find that."

Something about the manner in which she said this gave Inari the impression that Fan was not a native of Hell, but it was hard to tell whether this was the case. The scarred woman did not smell human, and with her red and gray eyes she did not look like one, either, but neither did she have the characteristic presence of demonkind. She was most unlikely a celestial entity; what would a goddess be doing in Hell? Inari had never heard of such a thing; the Celestial authorities did not work that way, being fastidious about where they spent their time.

"I don't know," Inari said, in reply to Fan's question. "I've lived most of my life in Hell, so it doesn't seem so strange."

"And yet you chose to leave," Fan said quietly. She turned to face Inari. It was unsettling to be confronted with those eyes, the one so fierce, the other as tranquil as a cloud.

"I said it did not seem strange. I did not say I liked it."

"Demons do not generally choose to leave their world, not for long. You must love that human of yours very much to have given up everything for him. Or perhaps the fact of it is that Hell gave you up? It is difficult to know the truth about you, Inari. I hear many conflicting stories."

"You seem very interested in me," Inari said nervously.

"I find you interesting, that is why."

"Listen," Inari said. She stepped close to Fan and laid a hand on her sleeve. The woman's arm felt warm, as though she was radiating an unnatural degree of heat. Fan looked down at Inari's hand with a slight smile, as though she had never expected to see such a thing.

"Yes?" she said.

"Fan," Inari said timidly. "Can you help me? I have to get a message to my husband. I have something important to tell him."

"What is it?" Fan asked mildly.

"I—I'd rather not say, if you don't mind."

Fan looked up. She was still smiling, and her strange gaze seemed suddenly to encompass Inari's own: red and gray like the skies of Hell, whirling her up and up into a vortex that encompassed all the worlds in one. And then Inari was floating down, pulled by the duality of the woman's eyes; a leaf blown down the walls of the worlds. She heard her own voice saying far away, "Because I'm leaving him. I'm not going back to the world of the humans. I'm staying here." And inside her there was a quick, sharp tug of utter anguish that brought her hand to her mouth like a broken doll. Fan steadied her, and the woman's fingers felt like bands of iron. It was then that Inari realized dimly that Fan was far stronger than she was, even though she was a demon and the scarred woman was—well, what? She stared dumbly into Fan's face and heard the woman say, "It's all right, Inari. Something has changed, that is all. Sit down and I'll get you some medicine." She helped Inari settle against the wall, and folded her hands in her lap. I am nothing but a puppet, Inari thought, my strings are cut. Numbly, she looked down at her own hands: noting the long fingers, the gilded talons. The varnish was wearing away now, chipped by flights and battle, and she could see the thick ivory surface of her nails beneath. That is me, she thought, I will be worn down until there is nothing left but bone; not the pretty doll of my mother's house, nor the ornamental human wife on the houseboat. . . I cannot walk on the earth of Earth; my feet burn as though they are bound. I carve vegetables into pretty shapes; I smile at my husband and go to the market in the morning. I am bound by my culture as surely as any wife of ancient China and yet I am a demon, a supernatural thing, a creature to terrify and fear. And if I stay in Hell, where will I go?

"You can stay here for the time being," Fan said in her quiet voice, as though answering the question that Inari had not asked aloud. "Until we work out what path we are going to take." Inari looked up. The scarred woman was holding a bowl, filled with bitter herbal tea, and her face was devoid of expression. She reminded Inari suddenly of the badger-teakettle: swift to help, curiously loyal, yet keeping its own mysterious counsel. Inari had never received any impression of affection from the badger, and never expected to. That was not what it did; that was not what it was. It moved in its own strange path like a moon around the world that was herself, and she had the same sense from Fan. Except that this time, Fan was the world, and Inari the moon: passing into its dark phase, hidden, eclipsed.

"We?" Inari whispered.

"You and I together, yes. There is a task I must accomplish."

"So you'll help me?" Inari asked, disbelieving, and Fan nodded, sadly and with faint surprise, as though it was the last thing that she had intended to do.

 

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Framed