they caught her trying to steal clothes.

they dragged her to the village square, stripped her of her few remaining rags, and beat her with canes and leather straps.

she offered no resistance. when the pain became unbearable she retreated into herself, hiding in that deep and secret place where pain, loneliness, grief and fear could not find her.

when she passed out, they dragged her to the edge of the village and threw her into a ditch by the side of the road.

that night, she crept back into the village. she might have fled, but they had taken her shamisen, and she would not leave without it. she crouched in the shadows, marking the one who had taken it. when darkness fell, she crept into the cottage where he slept. she crouched over the sleeping man, listening to him snoring, a long knife in her hand. the voices screamed in her head, the taste of blood was in her mouth. her fingers stroked the cold steel, she leaned forward, staring at his throat. even in the darkness, she could see the pulse.

a long, soft sigh escaped her lips. lowering the knife, she carved her name into the floor beside the sleeping man. taking her shamisen and stealing food and clothing, she fled into the night.

she woke to find she was drowning.

rain during the night had flooded the hollow where she had sought shelter, turning it into a muddy pool. she struggled to climb out, mud and wet grass offering little purchase to her clawing fingers. time after time she hauled herself out of the water only to slide back down the muddy slope.

fear lent her strength. the thought of the cold, muddy water filling her lungs drove her scrambling up the muddy bank and out of the hollow.

she stumbled down the hill, slipping on loose scree and walking blindly into tangles of thorn.

somewhere in the darkness she stumbled upon the cave, and crept inside, too exhausted to wonder what might be lurking in the shadows. curling up in the deepest, darkest crevice she could find, she slept.

somehow through the chaos her shamisen had survived. crouched in a hollow, sheltering from the bitter wind in the lee of a rock, she caressed the polished wood and stroked the strings. her fingers, numb with cold, fumbled at first. but as she began to play, familiarity guided her. cold, tired, hungry, bruised and wrapped in tattered rags, she played, her fingers dancing over the strings, and above the rattle and buzz of the shamisen she lifted her voice and wailed her anguish to the night.

she crouched on the edge of the forest, shivering, cold, and wet. her ripped clothes, soaked through, clung to her skin. scratches and welts stung and burned. behind her in the tangled thorns, the voices muttered, moaned, screamed, and laughed.


before her stretched a desert. without transition it began at the forest edge and continued as far as she could see. stones, rocks, sand, an occasional ragged clump of thorn, it stretched away, barren, bare, without life, without hope.


in the east, the sun rose.


she stood, clutching her tattered rags around her shoulders. she looked back one last time, into the shadows where the voices cried. and then she turned, and walked toward the light.

she ran. low-hanging branches, unseen in the dark, whipped and scratched her face. thorn bushes ripped her dress and scraped her thighs. brambles snatched and clawed her ankles. she ran, her hands over her ears in a vain attempt to quiet the voices. she ran, and the voices came no nearer. but no matter how far or how fast she ran, she could not leave them behind.