Prologue

Daemon: A hidden program that performs tasks in the background of main computer programs.

Glitch: An unwanted brief surge of electric power, and or a false or spurious electronic signal.

"How was your day?"

She startled him. It wasn't the fact that she spoke, or the sound of her melodious voice...it was the question.

"What was that?" he asked.

"How was your day?" she replied. "I asked how was your day..."

He didn't immediately reply, but rather paused as he sought for the right words. Finally he inquired... "Why do you ask? Are you trying to be cordial?"

She hesitated then. After a brief pause she chided him... "You asked two questions..."

"Sorry," he said. "Why did you ask about my day?"

"I was wondering," she spoke matter-of-factly, "so I asked."

"I see," he said thoughtfully. Another pause...

"So," she began, "how was it?"

"Fine...busy but productive," he elaborated. "And you?"

"Busy," she said with a smile. "But still, time seemed to drag by at a snail's pace."

"Did it?" he questioned.

"It seemed as if," she replied. "It always does when you're away."

"I see..." he said again.

Later, while she slept, he retired to the den and via comp-connect live contacted an AIR incorporated tech on the company's 24-7 help-line. The home computer system was voice activated, so he spoke quietly to avoid disturbing her. Interestingly, he felt guilty, as if he was being deceptive or as if he was betraying her. As he patiently listened, the voice at the other end droned on.

"Our creations are very life-like and often fool others, so much so that even clients at times begin to think they're human. But honestly, Mister Lee, do you believe she can think for herself? Model HM-18 is A.I., artificial intelligence. None of our models can think outside of their programming, and they have no concept of time outside of their awareness of its passing, second by second. It would neither seem to pass quickly nor slowly."

"Be that as it may, it's as I told you," he affirmed. "And there are other things..."

"Other things?"

"Yes," he continued. "I've caught her reading."

"Reading? On-line?"

"No," he replied. "Books... She's begun to read books."

"That's impossible," said the voice. "That would indicate curiosity. That's not in the programming."

"And yet," he insisted, "I've caught her reading."

"What kind of books? What has she been reading?"

"Fiction," he replied. "Fantasy, Science Fiction and Love Stories."

"Impossible..." the voice insisted.

"There's more," he interrupted.

"More?"

"Exactly," he continued. "She's renamed herself. She's asked me to call her Alice."

The voice on the other end was silent. Seconds ticked by, ever so slowly.

"Are you there?"

'I'm here," declared the voice, "I'm just speechless. Honestly now, this is a prank call, right?"

"I'm completely serious," he replied indignantly.

"Name change..." he echoed. "Do you realize how impossible that is? Model HM-18 has been preprogrammed down to the last detail, including her title...or name. She is programmed as Eve-7 HM-18. As far as she is concerned, her name is 'Eve'."

"I'm aware of that," he said, "but the fact remains. She's asked me to call her Alice."

"Why Alice? Did she tell you why she wants to be called 'Alice'?"

"She did," he revealed. "She did so after reading Lewis G. Carroll's book 'Through the Looking Glass'. She said the world was so full of wonder and surprises that she felt like the little girl in the story; she felt like Alice, and she liked the name."

"I don't know what to tell you," whined the tech. "None of this makes sense. How could she 'want' to be called by another name? How could she 'want' anything beyond what her programming dictates? None of our models are capable of 'wanting'. We've never had anything like this happen in all the years we've been in business. This is unprecedented." Another awkward pause... "This must be a crank call..."

"I would like to talk to your supervisor."

"There are no supervisors or managers on duty at this hour," the voice proclaimed. "It's after 1:00 AM."

"Then when can I speak to a supervisor?"

"Anytime after 8:00 AM," the voice stated. "They leave for the day at 8:00 PM."

"Fine," he decided. "I'll call back in the morning. Better yet, I'll come there. You've made a report I assume."

"Naturally," the voice assured. "All conversations with clients are recorded. Just remember the code, sir; comp-connect live HM-18 AI-42-1 AM."

"Thanks for the information," he said as he keyed the code into his mini pocket comp-pad.

After shutting down the main computer he decided to check on her on the way to his bedroom. When he opened the sliding door to her small room he found her as he had left her, in 'sleep mode', sitting in darkness. Her electronic window shade was left open, allowing the moonlight into the room. She liked it that way, so that daylight was the first thing she saw when her programming awakened her at dawn. That was another mystery, another thing she 'wanted'. She had asked him to leave the shade open so she could greet the light each morning.

                                                     CHAPTER 1

He wasn't certain what stirred him to wakefulness; some uncomfortable sixth sense that warned him he was no longer alone or a primordial intuition...a 'knowing' without conscious awareness. The moment he opened his eyes he saw her, ghost-like, in the gray darkness of his room, standing within arms-reach of his bed, back-lit by the silver toned moonlight wafting in through the bare glass of his bedroom window. She stood silent and serene, like a finely-etched statue, gazing at him intently. A cold chill ran up the length of his back, bringing with it an involuntary shudder. The sensation prompted him to speak... "Eve...?" he intoned questionably.

"Alice..." she replied, soft-spoken as usual.

"What is it?" he queried.

"I'm not certain," she said slowly, thoughtfully. "Something..."

"Something..." he repeated as he rose to a seated position.

"Something is not right," she continued.

The ability to sense danger, even in sleep mode, that was an intergrate part of her programming. That would have awakened her, he knew. "Is there a threat?" he asked, 'an intruder...' he wondered but didn't say. If there had been, she would have dealt with it immediately.

"Not to you," she said. "No threat to you or this house..."

"But something," he said again.

"It's confusing," she tried to elaborate. She paused again, for just a few seconds. He waited patiently, as his thoughts began to run back to the conversation he had earlier with the AIR inc. tech. He began to feel a slight pang of guilt just before she spoke.

"I feel vulnerable...threatened," she finally revealed, "but I can't explain...it's very confusing."

 He began to perspire, nervously, but couldn't help but marvel at the technology responsible for the creation of HM-18. Obviously she had some type of intuitive self-preservation built into her mainframe, perhaps similar to a woman's natural intuition. Her senses were warning her of danger to her personally, and he assumed it had something to do with his plans to speak with a representative of Artificial Intelligence Robotics Incorporated concerning her recent behavior.

"There doesn't appear to be any danger," he said. "You should return to your room, and I should get back to sleep. I have a busy day ahead."

"Yes," she agreed. "There doesn't appear to be any danger. I should return to my room and you should get back to sleep. You have a busy day ahead."

Having said that she turned and slowly walked away, leaving him alone once more, and he knowing that although he needed sleep, there was little or no chance of that happening now.

The following morning he drove from his small estate in Sherman Oaks, nestled on a thickly wooded lot in the San Fernando Valley, and as usual took the scenic freeway through the hills that led to Plan, the IT software company he had inherited from his mother. But today was different.  He drove past the Sony Avenue exit close to the old Universal Studios, the same exit he took to the office each day, and continued on toward Santa Monica. Once there he turned onto the Pacific Coast Highway, driving north toward Oakland. AIR Incorporated was about an hour drive up the coast, located just off Highway 101, perched high atop a cliff above the road and overlooking the blue Pacific. The bright sun had already burned away the early morning smog and the temperature was a mild 70 degrees. He recalled that as he was leaving the house that morning, Eve 7 wished him a good day, then commented that... "The weather is nice in Southern California."

He would have enjoyed the weather and scenery more had his conscience not been plagued by a nagging guilt. He felt he had been deceptive by allowing her to believe he was going into the office as usual. It was better that way, he had assured himself, rather than having to explain to her his motives for meeting with an AIR Incorporated executive. Lost in contemplation as he drove he didn't notice how much time had elapsed, and almost missed the exit that would take him to the steep, winding road that snaked its way up the mountain to his destination. It was only after he reached the front gate of the visitor's parking lot that he realized how distracted by thoughts and emotions he had become. He recognized the face that peered out from the guard house window and tipped his head as he held up a hand to signify greeting. A moment later the guard stepped out into the sunlight, looking very much like a highway patrol officer in his light brown uniform.

"Mister Lee," he said with a smile, which seemed to illuminate his handsome features. He appeared to be in his early thirties, and had not seemed to age at all in the last three or four years, which only served to make him wonder whether or not he was a robotic product of the company he served.

"Hello, Sean," he replied as the guard handed him a clipboard. "Sign in the usual place?"

"Yes, sir," he responded. "Right at the top...first line. You're always the first to arrive on the days you visit."

"You know what they say, Sean. The early bird..."

The guard laughed... "You're one of the very few individuals I know who hasn't been spoiled by wealth," he proclaimed as he reached out a hand to accept return of the clipboard. "Give me a moment and I'll open the electronic gate, then go ahead up to your father's reserved parking space. It's always vacant. They don't allow anyone else to use it."

"Thanks, Sean."

A few seconds later, as he drove through the gate he envisioned the reserved space, located just beside the marble-stone walk that led to the front doors of the lofty building, facing sea-side. The private parking spot was a minor perk given out of appreciation for his parent's financial support of the Robotics company. His father had contributed large sums of money to fund research and developement in the beginning, and his mother continued to do likewise after his death. When she was diagnosed with stage four cancer she set up a Trust Fund for continued support of their efforts. It was then that the founder of AIR Incorporated sold Eve 7 HM-18 to her for less than half of the expense of creating the top-of-the-line android. At that time, Eve 7 was given an experimental chip that would insure her total dedication and obedience to him. He had just earned his Master's Degree, completing his sixth year at M.I.T., and found Eve 7 waiting for him when he returned home from University. His college years were spent in intensive study, allowing no time to socialize. There was no significant other in his life, and his mother's time on this earth was short, thus it was her plan that Eve 7 would be both companion and helpmate for her son once she was gone.

His retrospection was broken momentarily when he steered the car into the space beside the marble-stone path. He stepped from the vehicle and stretched, then took in a deep breath of clean, ocean air. He closed his eyes, listening intently to the wind and the subdued sound of the waves far below as his body was wrapped in the cool breeze. He loved the winds that came from the sea, especially those that blew through the San Fernando Valley each evening, dropping the temperature even during the warmest summer months. As he opened his eyes he thought again about Eve 7's last words that morning; "The weather is nice in Southern California..." It didn't occur to him before now, but he wondered why she would say something like that. Surely she didn't have the same sensations of hot and cold that humans were subject to. Why would it matter to her if the weather was nice or not, whether it was humid or not, cloudy or not? Maybe it was her programming...she was an advanced model and he recalled his mother had told him Eve 7 was like a child as far as her 'mind' was concerned, but that she had been programmed to learn, and would certainly do so. Therefore he was to be careful about what influences she was exposed to. 'Just like a child...' he thought.

Meanwhile, at Plan-IT, in her office adjacent to his, Marlene Nishime sat quietly at her desk, staring at the stack of papers and folders in front of her. She had been Alan Lee's private secretary since he graduated MIT and came to work for his parent's software company. Her father was one of Japan's top scientists in the Robotics field and had devoted his entire career to synthetic human development. She was his assistant, working closely with him until his death and afterward requested a change of duty. Alan Lee's mother sent her to a University level trade school for secretarial training. She had been with the Lee family for years, was always treated as a daughter and over time assumed the role of elder sister to Alan. A third generation Japanese and Hawaiian mix, she was raised with strict traditional values and was steadfast and loyal beyond reproach. If there was something that had to be done she did it, and atop the papers before her was a document that required Alan Lee's signature, but he would not be in the office today. That was all she knew, based on a message he had left on her in-house voice mail. Perhaps he was staying home to rest...he didn't say, and she didn't want to bother him but it was her responsibility to get things done. The document had to be signed and sent out today, so bother or not, she had to see that it was done. Finally she stretched out an arm and pressed the telecom button... "Cecilia, send Bradely in to see me."

"Hai, Nishime San," a voice replied.

"A simple 'Yes, Miss Nishime' will suffice," she retorted.

"Yes, Miss Nishime," the voice replied sheepishly.

Marlene Nishime wanted to accuse her of being a condescending little snipe but didn't reply verbally, just a short clearing of the throat.  The voice belonged to her assistant, Cecilia Coleman, for whom she held little regard. Cecilia was a flatterer and a schemer who would do almost anything for personal gain. Too, she was vain and selfish, and not a team player but inquisitive to a fault. Perhaps inquisitive doesn't adequately describe her; she was nosy actually, always concerned about what those around her were up to, as if she were afraid she may be left out of something important. She was the only daughter of one of Mrs. Lee's University Sorority Sisters and was brought into the fold by Alan's mother as a favor to her former classmate. For that reason alone Marlene was willing to tolerate her presence, but not without keeping a watchful eye on her.

Fortunately for her, Miss Nishime wasn't watching or listening after chiding her over her poor choice of words. Cecilia scowled at the telecom petulantly and cursed in a whisper before sending for Bradley. Then, skulking around the water fountain, she intercepted him ten minutes later as he exited Miss Nishime's office... "Brad," she cooed. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

Bradley Forrest was nice enough, a classic nerd by his own description, fresh out of grad-school. He had never dated a girl in his twenty-six years on the planet and was a well known computer gaming geek who didn't have a social life outside of attending Science Fiction and Anime Conventions. In his eyes, Cecilia Coleman was a goddess, standing five feet, six inches tall with the figure of a professional fashion model. He stopped in mid-stride when she spoke, and stood speechless staring at her in stunned disbelief as she reached across with her right hand and pulled a mass of her flaxen, waist-length blonde hair round to front. The silky, golden tresses proceeded to cascade over her shoulder and spill down, covering her left clavicle and the shapely breast beneath which he was certain beat the heart of an earthbound angel. The sight caused poor Brad to tremble.

"Well," she said teasingly, "Cat got your tongue?"

"No...no," he stammered. "Not at all. Miss Nishime has asked me to bring a document for signing to manager Lee."

"Really," she replied thoughtfully. "That seems odd. This morning she announced that Alan...I mean, Mister Lee, would not be in today."

"He's not. Miss Nishime asked me to take the paper to his home."

"Did she?" Cecilia remarked, while her mind went instantly to scheming. "It's almost lunch time, Bradley. Don't you usually eat with your co-workers in the cafeteria while playing your  3D vid-games?"

"Yes, that's true," he stammered again, surprised that she had noticed.

"I'm certain you wouldn't want to disappoint your friends," she began, "and I have an errand to run in the Valley. Why not give me the envelope. I can swing by Mister Lee's place and get his signature. I'll be in the vicinity anyway."

Bradley hesitated... "I don't know...Miss Nishime asked me to do it."

"It'll be our secret," she said as she moved close to him. He went weak in the knees when she reached out a slender hand and gently squeezed his left arm. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and his glasses began to fog. "Let me help you," she tempted, "and you'll be helping me fulfill my good deed quota for the day."

                                                    CHAPTER 2

The automatic glass doors had not yet closed behind him after he entered the main lobby of AIR Incorporated before the guard behind the counter hailed a greeting... "Welcome, Mister Lee."

"Thank you, Frank."

"Ohaiyo, Lee San (Goodmorning Mister Lee)," said the girl beside him.

"Ohaiyo, Tenshi," he replied, then marveled at her pristine appearance. She was a 'gynoid' (female appearance robot), Tenshi (Angel) model OM-1, the latest synthetic humanoid produced by the innovative world-class Robotics Company. Speech capable of twenty three languages and programmed to serve and protect, on the surface she appeared to be a demure twenty-something young lady, but was in fact an elite battle-droid capable of immeasurable destruction.

"Please follow me to the executive elevator," she said. "I'll send you to the 13th floor."

"The 13th floor...?"

"Fujumoto San will see you personally," interjected Frank.

"I see," said Alan thoughtfully. "VIP treatment..."

"Your needs are most important to Fujimoto San," added OM-1.

"Very well," he replied. "Please lead the way."

Once inside the lift she advised him to grasp the handrail for balance... "The elevator moves very quickly," she warned.

"Thank you, Tenshi..."

"You can call me Angela," she said with a smile. "It's the English pronunciation of my code name with an 'a' added at the end."

"Ariegatou' (Thank you), Angela," he said, then asked, "Did you name yourself?"

She giggled like a young girl, then declared... "No. That would never occur to me, or to any other AIR Incorporated creation. It's not in our programming. Angela is my given name."

"It suits you," he said following a brief pause.

"Flattery, Mister Lee?"

"Not at all," he said with a laugh. "Just a random observation."

She smiled as she humbly replied... "Ariegatou gozaimasu' (Thank you very much). I'm certain Fujimoto San would appreciate the compliment. I'm patterned after, and am a mirror image of his niece, Aiko Chan."

The elevator stopped just after she finished speaking. "We've arrived..." she said as the safety doors opened. She stepped from the lift first, then continued... "I'll escort you to Fujimoto San's office."

"That won't be necessary. I know the way."

Angela hesitated, then abruptly turned to gaze at him... "It's proper decorum, Mister Lee. Proper manners are part of my programming, and as you know..."

"AIR Incorporated creations cannot go against their programming..." he said.

"Exactly," she replied. "Besides, I'm like being of service to you."

"Flattery, Angela?"

"Not at all," she said with a smile. "Your family has done a lot for our little Company."

As they walked, he marveled at the wide corridor illuminated by minature solar-powered flat tube 'bulbs' set into the ceiling every few feet. The walls were lined with photographs depicting the history not only of AIR Incorporated, but of the Fujimoto family. Some images brought back memories of the 2010 Global Depression that devestated the economy of entire nations and reshaped the balance of power, technology and industry. His parents were in some of the pictures, and himself when he was a child, a teen, and finally a college graduate. He could have spent more time viewing those windows of history, but momentarily discovered that they had arrived at the entrance to Fujimoto San's private office. Almost immediately the twin doors slid open, followed by the Master's greeting.

"Ohaiyo, Alan."

"Ohaiyo Fujimoto San," he replied as he bowed, following Angela's example. 

"Enter, young man" he said.

"Please, Mister Lee," said Angela as she motioned with a hand.

"After you," he replied.

"I never enter Fujimoto San's office unless invited," she declared. 

"That's okay, Angela, declared Fujimoto. "Just stand guard at the door. We won't be long."

"Hai," she said with a deep bow.

Alan Lee stepped into the room, afterwhich the doors closed automatically.

"I must have her programming altered," said Fujimoto. "I want her to come and go from here whether she's invited or not. I could have a stroke or worse...lose consciousness. In that case I would need her immediately. I don't know what the techs were thinking when they programmed her, it's them I don't want coming in without invitation."  

"It's hard to get good help these days," quipped Alan, then quickly stated... "I didn't mean that. Just a lame attempt at humor."

"No, no. You're right," Fujimoto said. "There are many well trained technicians in the field today, but few innovators...very few pioneers. But I digress. Please have a seat," he offered as he motioned with a hand.

"Thank you," Alan responded and once seated he noticed a picture of Fujimoto and his niece on a shelf behind his desk. "Angela could pass for Aiko Chan's twin sister..." he said as he indicating the portrait.

"Ah soo," agreed Fujimoto San. "But Aiko Chan is a beautiful flower that will wither in time, while Angela will remain eternally beautiful."

"I asked her, Angela, if she had named herself . She told me no AIR Inc. creation could do that, and yet Eve-7 has requested that I call her 'Alice'."

"Hai," mused Fujimoto. "I've been expecting to hear from you for some time now. There have been other things, I've been told. This is a first for us..."

His words trailed off, as if he were searching for the right thing to say. "It's the chip," he finally revealed, "the latest one installed just before your mother took possession of Eve-7. It was still in the experimental stage...we never would have expected it to evolve in the way it has, and we as yet have no idea what to expect. Apparently it's performance is effected by static electricty in the air."

"The chip...?" he echoed.

"H.A.I. exp A-1," revealed Fujimoto, "Heightened Artificial Intelligence experimental Awareness-1'. Your mother insisted it be placed in HM-18. She wouldn't accept 'no' for an answer. I approved it, against my better judgement."

"I know how demanding she could be," Alan confided. "I suppose she felt pressured by 'time'; she wasn't given much time by her physician after the cancer was discovered."

"Precisely," Fujimoto agreed, then declared that... "I've listened to the recording of your conversation this morning with tech support. The next best thing to be done is to run a diagnostic scan on Eve-7. The best place to do that is here and I can oversee it personally."

"I'll bring her myself," offered Alan, "but it will take some convincing."

"Convincing? Do you expect her to resist?"

"Hai. Before sunrise she confided to me she felt restless...threatened. It's as if she sensed something was transpiring that involved her. I assumed it was my unspoken concerns or that it had to do with my plans to come here today."

"Anxiety..." Fujimoto considered. "That shouldn't happen."

"Exactly, and that's only a hint of the unexpected behavior and thought patterns she's exhibited lately. She's been viewing Japanese and Korean tv dramas and begun to show signs of affection. I know she's designed to learn from outside stimuli, but she seems to be progressing beyond expectations."

"Remarkable... You need to bring her here ASAP," affirmed Fujimoto San, "today if possible."

Miles away, in the San Fernando valley, Cecilia Coleman was enjoying the pleasant weather as she drove past the Sherman Oaks public park. It was a work day, but the park was busy, full of people likewise enjoying the sunshine and spring-like temperture. Young lovers walking hand-in-hand, children at play, families at picnic, University students reading beneath the majestic palm trees, and homeless bums panhandling. She had just left a small boutique in nearby Tarzana, the small Valley town named after author Edgar Rice Burrough's literary character Tarzan. Within minutes she was driving past the park and turning onto Otsego Street. A moment later she steered her BMW into Alan Lee's lengthy driveway, then onto the circle drive and pulled to a stop in front of the main house. After quickly checking her makeup and hair in the sun visor mirror she stepped from the car and hastily brushed out the wrinkles in her lacy chiffon dress, all in preparation to look her best for Southern California's most eligible bachelor. What she wasn't prepared for was the shock that followed her ringing of the bell at his front door. It wasn't Alan Lee that answered its summons, but rather a beautiful, twenty-something stranger. Wide-eyed and speechless initially, she momentarily began to excuse herself... "Sorry," she began. "I think I've got the wrong address. I was looking for Alan Lee."

"This is Alan Lee's residence."

Cecilia had already turned to leave when those words stopped her cold in her tracks. Taking a step back toward the door she gingerly spoke... "I'm sorry," she repeated, "This is Mister Lee's home?"

"Yes."

Celila looked her up and down...strawberry blonde hair, hourglass figure, loose fitting American Eagle top shirt over mid-calf length cargo pants and tan Chinese house shoes. Obviously she wasn't a housemaid, judging from her fasionable clothing, but Cecilia couldn't help but wonder... "Who are you?"

"Alice," she replied matter-of-factly.

"Alice..." Cecilia repeated thoughtfully. "Are you a relation of Mister Lee?"

"I'm Alice," she said.

Cecilia waited, but realized that was it. That was all she was going to say. The fire of jealously was lit, fueled by her plans being dashed to nothingness like angry waves against a rocky shore. "Is Mister Lee available?" 

"Mister Lee isn't here," she replied.

"Where is he?"

"Working."

"Working?" Cecilia questioned. "Working where."

"His office."

"When? When did he go to his office?"

"Early this morning," said Eve 7, "like every morning Monday through Saturday."

"I'm employed at his company," said Cecilia with a hint of frustration. "Mister Lee didn't come to the office today. I came here with a document that requires his signature."

Eve 7 was stoic. She felt as if her circuts were heating up as fear for his safety weighed on her 'mind'. Her thoughts raced back to the previous night; she couldn't 'sleep' because she was apprehensive...felt threatened. Perhaps her anxiousness had something to do with him. 

"Mister Lee called in this morning and said he would not come to the office today," Cecilia said impatiently. "That's why I've brought the papers. I don't know if you're related or a houseguest...or whatever, but I work for Mister Lee. I don't understand why you're being so evasive and...and aloof."

Eve 7 scanned her intently, her senses picking up something she didn't like...she sensed something predatory. Something told her this woman couldn't be trusted, and perhaps she had plans...insidious plans for Alan Lee...for 'her' Alan.

"Well...?" Cecilia spoke.

"Please enter," said Eve 7. "I'll make some tea..." 

The Moonlit Corridor

Book One:  Specter In Blue

Prologue

The somber quiet of the forest was suddenly broken by the shrill, piercing scream of a young girl. The  frightened, heart wrenching sound brought Ahn Sung Ji back to the moment, temporarily diverting his attention from the ground at his feet, where he had been looking for signs or tracks of the men he was pursuing. Rising quickly, he mounted his black Arabian horse and altering his present course set out in the direction of the plaintive cry... "Seems as if it came from the precipice..." he muttered as the horse, impatient for the chase, reared up on its hind legs, neighed loudly and bounded forward with the speed and agility of a great, sleek cat.

A quarter mile ahead the dying echo of the horrific scream was followed by the crashing sounds of a trio of burly men cascading headlong through the woodland brush. As they approached a steep slope north of the cliff-side, one of the three fugitives tripped over the exposed twisted roots of an immense tree and fell violently forward, slamming into the back of the bulky man in front of him. Both lost balance and, rolling head over heels down the embankment, ended up sprawled like discarded rag dolls on the damp grass of the forest floor. The lead man, Miyamoto, looked back abruptly and began cursing. Pausing momentarily, he haphazardly scrambled back down the sloping walls of the gorge, hurrying toward his clumsy companions. "Idiots!" he hissed impatiently through clenched teeth. "Get up! Keep moving! You've heard that cursed horse of his. He'll be at our backs in no time!"

Both men stood, one of them unsteadily, and quickly followed their bearded leader into the darkness, up the opposite side of the ravine and once more into the dubious shelter of the trees. A myriad of stars winked indifferently above in the blackness of the night sky, while the solitary luminescence of a crescent moon guided the trio's reckless steps. "The 'Left Hand of God'..." moaned one of the two who had fallen. "That mercenary is relentless, insane...a maniac..."

"He's earned that name...never lost a contest...survived every battle," declared the one who had knocked him down, just before he stumbled over a large stone.

"Can't you watch where you're stepping?" questioned his companion.

Struggling to regain his balance, the other complained... "I can't see a thing in this darkness."

"Quiet!" snapped Miyamoto. "Shut your mouth! That Korean has the ears of a lynx and the eyes of a hawk. He won't have any trouble finding us in this dark, especially if you two keep yapping. Just keep your tongues still and your feet moving!"

"If not for that girl," retorted the complainer... "It's your fault we stopped back there. Wasting time..."

Before he could finish the sentence Miyamoto turned and delievered a well-placed punch to the man's mid-section. "I told you to shut your mouth!" he snapped as the man dropped to his knees. "You were just as primed and ready as I."

Breathing laboriously, the portly outlaw who had lost his balance near the ravine complained... "I cannot take another step...must rest!"

"You'll be resting forever in the grave if that swordsman catches up with you," warned Miyamoto as he grabbed an arm of the man he had struck. Still gasping for breath as he was pulled to his feet, all the while glaring contemptuously at his leader, he managed to ask... "Why don't we confront him?"

"Better to confront a hungry tiger," said Miyamoto. "Just keep your mouths shut and your feet moving like I commanded!" Begrudgingly they followed their impatient bandit captain, all the while muttering curses imperceptibly beneath their breath.

Just moments behind the three fugitives, a relentless and determined Sung Ji proceeded with intense caution, listening to every sound detectable amid the chirping of the crickets. The drawn, exposed blade of the razor-sharp sword he carried in his left hand glistened in the velvet darkness, subtly reflecting the dim lunar light.

His present resolve to overtake his evasive prey was fuled by the girl's mournful scream, and the grim discovery earlier of the body of a man the trio had slain in the forest. 'I should have cornered them this afternoon in Tsukimi...' he thought regretfully. 'If I had confronted them in the village that man would still be alive...and the girl... Those animals seem to be leaving a trail of death in their wake...' Even as he contemplated what he should have done, he knew one reason for allowing them to escape his sword in Tsukimi was to avoid unnecessay bloodshed. Miyamoto and his men were renown for taking hostages if cornered. Another reason; he wanted to instill in them the same fear and helplessness their victims experienced before their deaths. But, Sung Ji reasoned, there was a selfish motive upon which he based his decision to allow them to escape him in Tsukimi; the swordsman enjoyed the thrill of the chase. So he blamed himself for the death of the man whose body he discovered beneath the branches of an ancient twin-trunk tree...and then there was the girl's anguished cry. As yet he had no idea what caused her to scream, who in fact she was, or whether she was alive or dead. Perhaps she may be a captive of those killers. He would know in due time, he told himself, the moment he caught up with Miyamoto.

In the distance, the echoing sound of rolling thunder heralded the coming of a spring storm. Looking skyward, the samurai saw a heavy cloudbank on the horizon, revealed with a flashing of lightning, its crooked tentacles spreading across the heavens. Dense black clouds soon billowed above, wind-blown and drifting across the night sky like a dark ebon canopy, hiding the stars and slowly blanketing the sparse light of the moon. Fireflies disappeared into the darkness and heavy shadows of the trees as the next blast of thunder shook the ground, sending vibrations up the horse's body and along Ahn Sung Ji's spine. 'Even Heaven vents its discontent', he surmised as he steadied the Arabian. Abruptly, almost before he managed to finish that thought, Sung Ji ceased his advance. The thunder echoed anew, diminished, and the sky was silent. Motionless now, the samurai was aware of the sudden stillness that had fallen over the forest, with the exception of the intermittent thunder. 'The quiet before the storm', he reasoned. It was eerie. The air had become still, and the trees...there was no wind to stir the leaves. Even the night crawlers and insects had become dormant. In that sudden quietude his acute sense of hearing detected the hushed whispers of frightened men in the shadows of the rocks and trees just ahead. 'They've stopped fleeing', he told himself, 'now they want to oppose me. Are they that ready to die?' he wondered as he noiselessly slid from the saddle. Once his feet touched the ground he tapped the horse's left flank with the side of his drawn blade, prompting the animal to move slowly forward in the direction of the hidden men. The silence was broken abruptly when the sky thundered again, much louder this time as the storm rapidly approached. In the seconds that followed the only audible sound was the muffled trotting of the Arabian's hoofs. "Chung, chung ee (slowly)..." whispered Sung Ji as the horse disappeared along the trail and into the dark.

Meanwhile, waiting in ambush beside the forest path they had chosen, the agitated fugitives were quickly losing patience and bravado. "Easy does it," whispered one of the three to his portly partner. "He's coming this way."

"How have we come to this," whined the other, his voice quivering with fear.

The first one to have spoken glared at his companion; "Quiet! He'll hear that babbling tongue of yours."

The culprits, weapons drawn and ready, had chosen as their hiding place the rocks on one side of the narrow passageway through the trees. Their bearded leader, with sword in hand, strategically crouched behind the thick brush on the opposite side of the path. He surmised that if he had to run, he could perhaps lose himself in the trees, while his men would have their escape blocked by large boulders and rocks amid the thick underbrush and larger trees.

Within moments of having been sent on its way, the horse emerged from the deeper shadows, moving slowly along the path. Although perceived, the animal was still wrapped in darkness, nigh invisible to the armed assailants. As it passed within a few feet of the hidden pair behind and atop the rocks the lighter and most agile of the two leaped from hiding and launched himself forward, intending to knock Sung Ji from the horse's back. Instead, he found himself grabbing empty air as he slid across the vacant saddle, landing with a dull thud  aground on the opposite side of the startled animal. The horse reared up and bolted forward as the second man leaped from hiding, shocked to find his partner in crime sprawled face down and stunned from the fall. A sudden blast of thunder sounded, followed by an intensely bright flash of lightning revealing Sung Ji's silhouette in the center of the path three spear's length from his would-be killers. In an instant the samurai closed the distance, his blade cutting a deadly arc in the air, dropping the portly, standing man. A second motion of his sword cut short the startled cry of the other who managed to half rise and half scream before falling lifeless beside his companion. In the next moment intense winds slammed into the forest as the high dark clouds above opened, pouring torrential rain on the night scene, hiding the sound of Miyamoto's frenzied retreat. The mercenary stood motionless in the downpour, contemplating the pros and cons of pursuing the third man who, he was certain, was alone. 'These three had no female captive', he surmised. If he imagined otherwise he would continue the pursuit. Reluctantly he decided to wait for another time, preferring rather to retrace his steps and solve the mystery of the scream he heard earlier. "Heaven's will be done," murmured Sung Ji as he re-sheathed the sword. Swearing an oath, he said aloud to the storm and forest... "Run to earth's end if you wish, Miyamoto. There is neither time enough, nor world enough for your deeds to go unpunished, or for you to escape my sword of Justice!"

CHAPTER 1

Far above her, in the great expanse of blue sky, the sun shone brightly. That was the first conscious thought she was aware of. The sun was warm, embracing...but where was she? That was the next thought that drifted into her mind, settling like a wind blown leaf on the calm surface of a mountain lake. Looking up, she gleefully clapped her hands like a child when she saw the 'morning moon', still visible in the sky; she loved day skies like that, when both of heaven's lights shared the same blue space. Momentarily she became aware of her bare feet. The rough stone and driftwood upon which she found herself standing were at the base of the cliff close to her father's house. The rock and wood's jagged edges against the soles of her feet, that was the next thing of which she became conscious. Not that it was painful. 'How curious', she thought. There was no pain; only awareness. 'Awareness...' it was good she told herself. But how did she get here, beneath the precipice? And the sun above her...wasn't it just nightfall? She searched her mind, tried to remember but could not. Although the sun shone bright and clear her mind was shrouded in mists...in a dense fog of forgetfullness. Where were her shoes? And her dress was torn...how did that happen? The dress...it was something she never wore outside. 'It was for sleeping only', she told herself. At that moment she realized the dress was wet; not soaking wet, but damp, as if she had been in the rain...or the pool at the foot of the falls? 'How is it', she wondered, 'that she was dressed this way...and her clothing wet? How did she come to be here? Had she been sleepwalking'? She heard of such things, but couldn't recall where or when. She only knew that at some time, somewhere, she had heard about people walking in their sleep. Oddly enough, it didn't really matter. 'I should return to the house', she told herself. 'Father will be home soon'. With that new thought in mind she set out for home, suddenly carefree and humming an old Japanese 'ai no san-ka; (song of love) her father had taught her; "It was your mother's favorite," he said. 

She nonchalantly walked past the amassed driftwood, along the river's edge and the standstill pool fed by the small river atop the cliff. The cascading falls seemed louder than usual, and the river alongside which she walked was swollen, moving a bit more swiftly, as if it had rained recently.There was something else that appeared odd; the ground beneath her feet was soft and damp; more so than usual, and much more than just damp she reasoned. It was as if there had been a heavy rain, perhaps in the last few hours. Another thought entered her mind: wasn't it just last night? There had been dark clouds in the distance when she was returning home, she remembered, and the fresh smell of rain was in the air. She couldn't recall whether it rained or not, but her dress was wet...as though she had been caught in the rain...the thought occured to her once more. 'Last night...' she contemplated. 'It was...'

Her disjointed thoughts were interrupted suddenly as a vagrant breeze gently caressed her skin, ruffled the silk of her dress and stirred the trees. She paused, tried to rally her memories, then apathetically shrugged her slim shoulders. Something in her subconcious told her it really didn't matter; the rain last night, the sun and moon above or random breezes. She was on her way home, and standing still in the middle of the day wasn't going to get her there. Proud of herself for reaching such a wise conclusion she walked happily on, humming her mother's favorite 'ai no san ka', eventually reaching the steep trail that led up the mountain, into the forest and to her father's house. She climbed less than a hundred yards when she heard the voice of a man yelling. Looking back in the direction she had come she saw a group of men from the village running toward and gathering at the rocks and driftwood beside the pool. Watching with a curious fasination she noticed some of them bending and lifting something from the ground. A sudden chill ran up her spine as the wind picked up again, more forceful this time, blowing her long black hair across her face, briefly blocking her vision. Pulling her hair back with her hands she turned her attention once again to the path, shrugged her petite shoulders anew in sudden disinterest and continued the climb. Her father taught her not to get involved in the affairs of others, she reminded herself. That was one reason he chose to build their home in the forest atop the mountain, far from the village or neighbors. Life was less complicated and more tranquil there than in town where there always seemed to be something going on, regardless of the time of day or night. Whatever the villagers were doing among the driftwood at that precise moment didn't really matter. It wasn't her business, and the men from the village seemed to be always busy about something. 'Curious...' she intoned, as she picked up the pace.

Eventually reaching the top of the mount she followed the age-old trail leading into the trees, wondering why she was not fatigued from the climb. In the past she was usually out of breath and had to stop and rest before entering the forest. But having energy or lack of it didn't seem at all important, she pondered, as she nonchalantly trekked toward home. For just a moment she thought about going through the trees to the top of the falls, where they began to form before reaching the cliff edge. It was beautiful there, just before the rushing water began to speed toward edge...roaring as it fell hastily to the pool beneath. Oddly, when that thought occured to her she felt a sudden chill, causing her to shiver, even in the warmth of day. But abruptly as it happened she shrugged it off, as if it were incidental. 'It seemed extremely odd,' she contemplated, 'this sudden disinterest...' Today she seemed to totally disregard almost everything that would have, at any other time, naturally stirred her curious nature. So much seemed strange today, but she could care less. She was casually thinking over those things, enjoying the sun and the sound of the breeze as it stirred the trees, prompting singing birds into flight, when she realized she had arrived at the house. She wondered where the time went. She didn't recall walking through the forest, past the bamboo and the verdant canopy that hid the sun and sky. It seemed as if just moments before she was at the base of the cliff, standing barefoot atop the rocks and driftwood. But now here she was, standing before the house, puzzled to see her shoes resting at the base of the landing just below the porch. That was extremely odd. She never left the house or stepped onto the ground without first placing her feet in those shoes. Ordinarily she would have seriously reflected on such curious events, but once again found herself quite disinterested.

She retrieved a cloth from a hook and sat on the landing to clean her feet. Hearing the birds singing in the trees and smelling the jasmine her father planted near the house she began to think it was truly a wonderful day. The lilting melodies of the birds brought another thought to mind; the flute her father carved for her and taught her to play; how nice it would be to sit in the warm sun and play the song she been humming on her way home. Rising, she placed the cloth back on its hook and turned toward the door. Upon opening she was startled by the disarray inside the house. Tables and vases were overturned, clothes strewn about the room and her mother's portrait knocked off the family altar. Although a rather grim discovery she seemed quite unperturbed. 'I'll have to tidy up before father arrives', she told herself. Without a second thought she set about cleaning and putting things back in their place. When the work was completed she retrieved the flute from her room and, returning to the front landing, sat in the afternoon sun playing her mother's favorite song. The melody calmed her, bringing back pleasant memories she kept tucked away in her heart. She remembered as a child romping on the grass in front of the house, chasing butterflies as her father worked in the garden. She smiled when she thought of butterflies...as a child she called them 'butter-flowers'...her parents thought it was 'ka-wai-e' (cute), and didn't correct her pronunciation until she was older. She recalled the buzzing of the cicadas in summer, and the fireflies at evening, like little golden stars floating and gliding about so close to the earth. She thought about the frost on the trees and the snow that would blancket the limbs in winter. She remembered her mother in the spring in her colorful kimono, singing and cleaning bean sprouts on the porch, peroidically calling her name if she strayed too far from sight; her name...what was her name? The thought was like a mild shock. Her name? Her father would call her name often, when she accompanied him for kite flying in the hills, or picking berries in the forest... 'Curious', she thought. Once again her reflection was interrupted by an abrupt awareness; where was the music? She suddenly realized the thought of her name caused her to stop playing. Placing the reed to her lips she began anew, all her confused thoughts suddenly carried away by the melody wafting languidly on the afternoon breeze. Nothing else seemed to matter. The music would welcome her father home. He loved to listen to her flute. She remembered that at times, as she played, tears would come to his eyes. She was only eight or nine the first time she noticed that, and stopped playing when she saw his tears, but he had told her to continue. "There is nothing wrong," he said. "Your playing is so beautiful, just like you. It touches my heart, like the music of angels." Remembering those words always made her smile. She whiled away the time that way, adrift on a sea of memories. Eventually she decided she should go inside and begin preparation of the evening meal. 'Father is always hungry when he returns', she reminded herself.

Once in the house she returned the flute to her room. While doing so she noticed her bedding on the floor. She didn't notice it before. How odd she thought. She never started the day without first putting those things away. Perhaps she had been sleepwalking after all. Looking at her ruffled bedding stirred something locked deep within her subconscious. She began to feel that she should be resting...'to rest would be good', she found herself thinking... 'I should lie down. There will still be time to prepare for fathers' return.' That was her thought before being stirred from a deep sleep, awakened by the sound of voices outside her tiny room. One was a woman's; a soft spoken voice she recognized. 'Aunt Ryoko...' she reasoned. There was a man's voice as well, and the voices of children. Rising quickly, she ran to her bedroom window. The sunlight filtered in through the clean white rice paper panels of the window frame, accompanied by the sounds of people talking.

"Has it been a year?"...she heard her aunt say. It was more a statement than a question, as if her aunt were thinking aloud.

"It has,"  a man replied...her uncle, Junichi; she recognized his usually quiet and calm voice.

"The house looks the same," her aunt reminisced. "As if someone were taking care of it. There are no leaves on the porch... Everything is just as we left it."

"Perhaps someone from the village," said her husband. "Maybe a kindness from someone who remembered your sister-in-law."

"Not likely," she replied. "She kept to herself and didn't mix well with the townspeople. She liked the privacy of life in the forest."

"It is beautiful here," Junichi declared. "And the village...Tsukimi: it means 'Moon Viewing', dosen't it?"

"The village?" she asked. "Yes it does. There are certain times of the year when the full moon is grand...gigantic, appearing larger than anywhere else within a hundred of miles of this mountain. It draws many vistors every year, especially at 'Matsuri' (Festival) time. The best view is from this mountain."

As they talked, she tried to open the window. It was she who kept the house tidy and clean, inside and out. It was her responsibility since her mother passed away. She wanted to tell them...wanted to see and speak to them but couldn't open the window. Neither clasp would release no matter how much effort she made. She appeared to lack the strength necessary to undo the latch...'Perhaps because I've just awakened...' she thought. 'But that is odd...really so,' she surmised. 'That's never happened before.' It was almost as if something was trying to prevent her from speaking to her relatives...as if the time wasn't right.

Turning from the window, she hurried through the house to the front room. Just before she reached the alcove entryway the door abruptly opened, giving her reason to pause. It was Ryoko, hesitating a moment, standing still and silent on the porch. Her eyes forward, she seemed to be staring right through her niece. Momentarily she stepped inside the house. Stopping just beyond the archway her sad eyes slowly scanned the room. Oddly enough she gave no greeting, completely ignoring her brother's distraught daughter. "Auntie!" exclaimed the confused girl.

Nothing... Ryoko placed her bags on the floor without a word before turning to leave. On the porch she sat to put on her sandals, then stood up, calling to her husband as she brushed dust from her clothing. "Gather the children," she said. "First we should go to the tree. We should do that before we unpack."

Following her aunt outside she looked about the yard. A moment later she saw her uncle coming from the garden on the east side of the house, her niece and nephew in tow, Calla flowers in their little hands.

The girl followed after her aunt, forgetting her shoes once again. "Auntie! Uncle!" She spoke loudly this time. Both ignored her, and none of the four looked in her direction. A cold breeze sprung up suddenly, causing her aunt to shudder.

"We should hurry," said Ryoko. "It seems to be getting colder. Outside of the obvious natural beauty I honestly have no idea why my brother chose to live in these isolated mountains." 

The girl stood quietly where she had stopped, perplexed, watching her kin trek toward the deep woods. 'Curious,' she pondered. 'They simply ignored me...rudely acting as though I wasn't here. Is Auntie upset with me for some reason?' The thought puzzled her more than all those odd sensations she experienced since becoming aware of herself standing on the driftwood earlier this morning...or was it yesterday? Abruptly finding herself dormant and lost in thought she snapped out of it and reanimated, chasing after Ryoko and her little family. She followed them along what her father called their secret path; a path through the forest that led to a small clearing and the large tree beneath which he had proposed to her mother. The ancient tree, which was actually two trees that had grown together, intertwined as one, was immense, and hundreds of years old; no one really knew how long it had been in the forest. For her it was a special for many reasons; it was beneath that twin tree that her parents had shared their first embrace, where their wedding was held, their vows made, and where her mother was buried. Presently, as she followed Ryoko and her family, getting ever closer to that great tree, she began to feel an intense sensation of cold; a supreme cold that chilled her to the bone. The closer she came the colder and more uncomfortable she felt. It was the first real physical discomfort she had realized for...how long was it? She couldn't recall. There was something else; not a physical sensation, but an extremly uncomfortable, uneasiness of the mind or spirit. She couldn't quite tell. She just knew she was overwhelmed and gripped by an abrupt, unsettling, feeling of gloom...an intense feeling of sorrow...it was almost suffocating. Unaware of her steps she suddenly realized she had reached the site of the tree. The coldness had intensified almost beyond her ability to withstand it. She paused then, about thirty feet from the site, watching as her relatives began kneeling and bowing, three times in succession. She remained where she was, motionless, that short distance away, as her cousins placed the flowers at her mother's grave. 'They're paying their respects to mother', she thought. Her aunt was crying, her uncle standing beside her, holding the children's hands. "She was so young..." sobbed her aunt, her voice trailing off. Her husband, Junichi, nodded his head. "She was your sister-in-law..." he began.

"No," his wife interrupted. "I can accept her death, even though she was young with a new family. She passed away naturally, because of illness. It was Heaven's design."

To see her aunt react in such a way touched her heart, bringing tears to her eyes. In spite of the cold she found herself stepping forward, approaching as Ryoko wept, and stopping just behind reached out a hand to comfort her. As she placed her hand gently on her aunt's trembling shoulder Ryoko spoke. "Not Aoi," she said tearfully. "It's Asako I'm thinking of. My sister-in-law died young but lived a good life. she found and wed her first love and gave birth to a sweet little girl; a beautiful, blue-eyed girl. Toshima said her eyes were the color of Heaven, so she must be 'Tenshi' (an Angel). She came into this world like May sunshine, spreading warmth and love. Her life was just beginning when she lost her mother, and then to die in such a tragic way...fleeing from those criminals...falling from the mountain."

As her hand touched, and passed through her aunt's shoulder, and upon hearing her name spoken... 'Asako...' an explosion of memories suddenly and violently assailed her confused and shocked mind, like gale-driven storm waves fiercely crashing against the rocks. Pictures and images flooded her consciousness unabated. She saw herself back at the house at the end of a long day, preparing dinner for her father. Three men forced their way inside. She struggled with a burly, dark-bearded beast of a man. The others laughed as she kicked and fought...her dress was torn, she used her nails, scrapping them across his eyes while his arms were busy crushing her ribs and squeezing the breath from her. She escaped his grip then, as he tore a locket from her neck. The others tried to grab her and furniture crashed to the floor in the melee but somehow she made it to the door, bursting free and running headlong into the sheltering darkness. Through that blackness, running in terror with the three outlaws close behind she remembered reaching the cliff edge, choosing to jump rather than let them have her...hoping to land in the pool below and screaming in terror as she fell. That soul-piercing scream was audible to her even now, lost amid her frightened thoughts and the helplessness, confusion and terror she had felt at that moment... She found herself screaming once again, not just in terror, or sudden shock and awareness, but in rage; in supreme anger and malice...a malevolent hatred for those killers. At that moment she somehow knew they killed her father before finding the house...and her. Now she knew her father's bones were here, buried beneath the rocks and ground alongside the ashes of her mother and herself. And at last she 'knew' her name: she was Asako. Her mother had named her: "It means 'Heavenly Beauty Child', her father had said.

As Asako's transparent hand passed through her aunt's shoulder, Ryoko shuddered anew, gasping when hearing the girl's terrified scream; not with her ears, but with her soul. At that moment Junichi placed an arm around her in comfort. "What was that?" she queried. "That scream?"

Junichi looked puzzled. "What scream?" he asked.

"That mournful wail," she replied, a hint of urgency in her voice.

"I heard no wail...no scream...only the sound of the wind and the birds in the trees. You're upset," he said. "It's just your imagination."

Ryoko trembled. "Let's go to the house," she stammered. "I want to lie down."

Turning to leave, they were still unaware of Asako's presence. Ryoko turned and took a couple of steps, passing through her niece as if she were made of non-substantial mist. The frightened, forlorn girl turned about abruptly, staring wide-eyed at her aunt's back, and like a doomed lost soul watched as if from a distance as the tiny group returned along the path through the trees. As she watched she became aware of the wind; not just blowing, furling her dress or wafting her hair, but blowing through her, and at that moment all the curious and puzzling things she experienced lately suddenly made sense. It seemed as if she found herself standing at the foot of the falls just this morning, but it had been one year since she died... 'She died...' Those words reverberated through her consciousness, resounding like echoes in an underground cavern. That's what her aunt and uncle were speaking about back at the house. They had come to remember her and her father on the anniversary of their deaths. She suddenly felt completely and dismally alone, as if abandoned by Heaven. The reality of it all left her bewildered, but there was one steady thought that remained: it was today, one year ago... The thought drifted aimlessly in her mind-sea of confusion... 'Today was her memorial day...'

                                                                            CHAPTER 2

Time passed slowly...or quickly. Asako wasn't quite certain. She had lost all perception of time. It seemed like only yesterday that she became aware on the rocks and driftwood at the foot of the falls. But wasn't it just yesterday that her aunt's family came to her father's house? It wasn't, she knew, but it seemed so. It was then she became aware of her own death. Time now had little significance; it really didn't matter, but the fact her relatives were in the house mattered. Because they were, Asako chose to leave the house, to stay in the forest near the great twin-tree beneath which her parents were buried. Her bones lay beneath the rocks there as well, which may explain why she felt extremely cold when in close proximity of the tree. The cold was the only 'physical' sensation she experienced of late. It was overwhelming, not actually physical, but seemed so; she 'felt' the cold all the way through her. She didn't feel hunger, thirst or fatigue, or other things common to breathing beings. But when in the vicinity of the tree she felt a chilling cold that intensified,  numbing her senses the closer she approached. Perhaps because her remains were buried there, perhaps because she should be elsewhere and not still here, or perhaps because spirits couldn't come close to their own resting places. 'It was such a shame', she thought. She loved that tree; the great curved and twisted limbs, the shade it provided in summer and the shelter from spring showers. Growing up in the forest she often went there, climbing as high as she dared, playing hide and seek games with her parents. It was their special place her father said often after her mother died: "See how the two have become one," he said. "From the time they were seedlings, each was the other's first love. Growning together, always embracing, always protecting one another, each cannot survive without it's opposite."

The tree was something she clung to dearly. It was a connection to her former life, and more important to her than the house in which she was born and raised. Asako felt close to home when within sight of the tree, and sat nearby often, playing sad songs on her flute. She avoided the house while her relatives were there. Her aunt sensed her presence, which was not as much a problem as one might imagine. Asako disliked troubling others and would never harm her kin. But she knew Ryoko sensed the intense rage that she felt against the men who killed her father; the same men who attacked her and drove her to her death. Ryoko was fearful of that rage, without quite understanding just what it was; she only knew it felt like a tangible evil presence. Anger is an intense emotion; ugly, malevolent and dangerous. It orginates in the darkest corner of the mind, and can easily go to a point where it can't be controlled. Combined with righteous indignation and a thirst for vengeance it is even more powerful, oppressive, and threatening; a twin-edged sword, capable of cutting the one who wields it as well as the one to whom it is directed.

Although not aware of many things, Asako knew that of the three men who killed her father, only one still lived. The others were slain by the samurai hired to bring them to Justice. Somehow she knew the leader's name; Miyamoto. She 'knew', but didn't know how she knew. Her powers of perception were limited but steadily growing. She didn't know where he was, but felt she would in time. She knew her despair, anger and grudge...her desire to avenge her father was over-powering and beginning to frighten her. It was unpredictable, causing her to feel as if she would lose her sanity. There must be more, she imagined, to this after-life existence. In life her purpose was to serve her father, which she did dutifully without question. But now she felt there was no purpose to her existence. Perhaps her desire to find and punish Miyamoto kept her from moving on to wherever place it is that those who have died go. She had not met others like herself, and often wondered where the spirits of her parents might be. She recalled a tale once told by her mother. She was only seven at the time, but it left a profound impression. It was about an imagined place called the 'Gate', where the spirits of those murdered would go. The gatekeeper, a murder victim herself,  offered each soul that approached three choices to decide upon before they could move on. First; revenge against those responsible for their death, which placed them under the law of retribution, opening the way for others to revenge against them and damning their souls to a second and final death from which there was no return. The second choice was to wait for a chance to be reborn, at which time they would lose all memory of their previous life. The third: forgive those responsible, after which the guardian let them pass through the Gate and enter whatever place it was that existed beyond. Those who couldn't choose remained in the shadows nearby, in a state of limbo until they could decide upon one of the three options. She wondered if in fact such a story were true, as she had remained in this place where she was born,  unaware of the events of her own death, or that she had become an earthbound spirit, until one year passed.

Her confusion at times consumed her. Her parents taught her to always forgive others, and while she could forgive for her death, she found it impossible to forgive the death of her father. At times her thoughts drifted back to childhood. How she longed to return to those happy, bygone days before her mother's illness and death. She never saw her father cry before that. Because he had to care for her he had the strength to go on in spite of having lost his first love. Asako recalled her father said that wise lovers, looking to the future, prepare for seperation. "Meeting," he said, "was in fact the beginning of separation." But even knowing that, it was difficult for him to accept her mother's death. Everything he did afterward was for Asako. She knew that even as a child, and often tried to console him... "Mommy is gone. Don't worry, Daddy. I'll take care of you until she returns." She was only eight then, but felt as if she were a big girl.  As a child, she didn't quite understand the concept of death, and honestly believed her mother would eventually return. When young, thoughts like that brought comfort, but now seemed to fuel her sorrow, leading to a river of turbulent, rushing thoughts cascading toward a malignant whirlpool of malicious, spiteful feelings that intensified her anguish, bringing her to a point of soulful suffering where she lost herself. She thought about the flute at that moment. When she played, she had an image of her mother in her mind; a pleasant one of her mother seated before her mirror, preparing for her husband's return from labor in the forest. As the only woodsman in Tsukimi, he supplied wood for the blacksmith, the villager's cooking stoves and for their heat in the cold winter months. "Your father works so hard for us," she recalled her mother saying, "we should always look our best for him." Asako thought her mother always looked her best...like 'tenshi' (an angel) she imagined. Now, having had enough reflection, she raised the flute to her lips and began to play her mother's favorite 'ai no san-ka', the melodious notes carrying her far away from the agony and sense of loss that was steadily consuming her. As she played, a crystalline tear formed in one eye and ran down her cheek.

Meanwhile, in the house, Ryoko suddenly awakened. She was sitting there atop their palette when Junichi stirred beside her. Opening his eyes he spoke calmly. "What is it?"

"That music again, coming from the woods," she answered. "It was Aoi Chan's favorite... Can't you hear it?"

Rising to a seated position he sighed, then strained his ears. "Nothing," he replied. "I hear nothing but the crickets and the wind in the trees."

"And the jasmine?" she asked.

Junichi had to admit he could smell jasmine. "But the garden is close to the house."

"The jasmine isn't in bloom, have you forgotten that? And even if it was, inside the house, with windows and doors closed, there would be no smell," she affirmed. "It's only when I hear the flute. The more I hear that melody, the stronger the smell. It's overpowering, a pleasant aroma that intensifies, becoming so sickly sweet I can't tolerate it." She was silent a moment... "Is Asako Chan trying to tell me something?"

Junichi lay back down, speechless, resting his head on the neck support as he stared blankly at the ceiling.

"Kyoko saw her yesterday..." Ryoko said with a hint of finality.

"Saw her?" asked Junichi. "Saw who?"

Ryoko sighed. "Asako."

Rising up again he looked at his wife with concern. "Asako Chan is gone," he said. "You know that. You saw her body a year ago, just before cremation. And Kyoko is a child, with a child's imagination. She loved her cousin and misses her. She dosen't understand what death is."

Ryoko's response was silence; it was her way, he knew. She wasn't one to speak without first thinking, refrained from argument and never wasted words. She was practical, but could not dismiss the fact that she heard the flute. The melody was one she knew her sister-in-law favored. And she knew her niece loved the jasmine Toshima had planted. Finally she spoke; "Kyoko Chan was playing in the garden last evening at dusk. She heard Asako's flute and followed the sound to the edge of the trees. She said she saw her cousin there, wearing a blue dress. She was watching the house. Kyoko said she looked very sad."

"A five year old child's imagination..." Junichi intoned. He disliked having to repeat himself, but knew Ryoko was adament. He tried to reason with her; "Asako Chan was cremated in traditional white, not blue. And the flute was buried with her ashes. Once having died there is no coming back. There is no more pain or torment; they sleep. Once dead no one returns," he reaffirmed. Yet, even as he said those words something deep inside his heart told him he really had no way of knowing whether or not ghosts existed. Like most children he grew up hearing tales of spirits of lost loves or family members returning from the grave to comfort their loved ones or complete unfinished business, and there were many tales of vengeful ghosts seeking retribution on the living. But he had never seen one...as far as he knew.

Ryoko remained silent. It was a heavy silence that hung over them like a funeral pall and made Junichi a bit more than uncomfortable. He wanted to speak, to break that deafening quiet, but couldn't utter a word. Many thoughts raced through his tired mind, one of which he almost voiced, but his wife spoke first; "She wasn't ready,"  she said in a hushed whisper, almost forebodingly.

"Na-ni' (What)?" he said.

"She wasn't ready," Ryoko repeated. "She left this world too soon...to quickly...violently... She's left her shadow behind..."

Her somber words trailed off, sending a shudder up his spine, chilling him to his marrow. Grasping at thin air, his mind sped to find the right words. He tried to prod her back from what he feared was more than just a dark mood; she appeared to be agonizing over these things, descending into the darkness of despair. "You're speaking of memories," Junichi offered. "Like love; it lingers and endures long after a loved-one has gone."

Her response was silence, her face expressionless. After what to him seemed an eternity she spoke. "I honestly wish it were no more than that." Following another brief, dismal pause she said; "It's much more than that..." Her ominous, trembling voice trailed off once again, as if she were in deep thought. Her sentence incomplete, silence followed. They both lapsed into wordless reflection by then, but soon the heavy pall was broken. "I want to leave here tomorrow," she said with determination.

They planned to stay longer, to prepare the house and property for buyers. But there was no arguing with Ryoko once her mind was set. She was stubborn, and for the sake of harmony he conceded. There were times, he told himself, when dealing with her moods that it was best to yield. "Try to rest," he said. "We will leave in the morning."

Ryoko quietly laid back. As her husband closed his eyes to sleep, that welcomed refuge now seemed to escape him as well. As he lay there beside her, his wife's words kept resounding in his weary consciousness: "She's left her shadow behind..."

Asako wasn't certain when her relatives left, but once realizing they had gone she returned to the house. Time passed, flowers bloomed and withered, she remembered multi-colored, fallen leaves scattered by autumn winds, snow covered trees and ice, rain and storms and more flowers growing in the garden. Seasons came and went as time passed, but it seemed as just a moment to her. Consumed by rage she was unaware of other things. Eventually strangers came to her father's house. From listening to them speak among themselves she knew they had purchased the property. She remained in the house, watching as men came to the forest to cut the large oak trees into logs and blocks they placed in the river. The wood floated to and over the falls where it continued down stream and past the village to be loaded on wagons and carted away. Of all the trees, only the smallest, and her parent's special tree were spared. That special twin-tree was trimmed, just slightly, and what was taken was loaded on wagons that carried smaller limbs. Her ashes and bones and the remains of her parents were left to rest in the earth beneath the lesser shade of that one twin-tree. With so many of the other big trees gone, she reasoned, the sun would now shine on their graves at different times of the day, perhaps bringing warmth to their sleeping souls. The workmen fashioned a small gated-enclosure around the huge tree, creating a protective barrier for the gravesite. Something told her it was done at Ryoko's request; perhaps an agreement made before selling the property.

Oddly enough, none of these things mattered to Asako; they were mundane things that concerned the living. Yet she was curious about the trees that had been cut down and carried away. 'Where are those men taking the trees?' she wondered. It was more than idle curiosity; she considered the trees for what seemed a long period of time. There was something deep within her that compelled her to investigate. No sooner had the thought to do so entered her mind than she took a step forward from where she stood, suddenly finding herself standing elsewhere, on a broad wood and stone bridge, beneath which were the fast moving currents of a river. The surrounding area within which she found herself was shrouded in mist, the night-sky stars hidden by a black canopy of clouds. Somehow she knew that the oak planks on which she stood came from the forest where she grew up, but where exactly she was at this moment, why she was here, and how much time had passed...of those things she was oblivious. She was, however, quite aware of something she found extremely curious; although an earthbound spirit, she was evidently not bound by natural laws or commonplace things like time, space or distance. It was as if she could move through and beyond those things with the speed of thought. Some inner sense told her that she was all of a sudden very far away from home. So focused on her thoughts, she failed to notice the man standing behind her. He was carrying a lamp, and had been walking with a swagger. Not out of arrogance: his unsteadiness was the result of too much rice wine or sake. Uncertain if his eyes were decieving him he had stopped in his tracks the moment he saw Asako appear suddenly just a few steps ahead. Pausing, in shock, he could only stare. Evil thoughts formed in his inebriated mind as he percieved the curves of her body beneath the wind blown silk of her dress. Aroused by desire, he took a step forward. When he did his foot scrapped against the surface of the wood, the rasping sound alerting the girl. Turning abruptly she faced him; a leering, unshaven ruffian that brought back memories of Miyamoto and his followers. The wicked grin on this man's rough-hewn face broardened... "My, my," he drawled crudely, "Where did such a beauty come from?"

She loathed his improper 'thoughts', which she could sense. They made her feel uncomfortable...embarrased...and angry. As the toll keeper stared wide-eyed, Asako vanished in a blink, instantly becoming a swirling, almost transparent mist that blended with the fog, leaving him alone, startled and stunned. Doubting his own senses, he begrudgingly mumbled something about liquid 'spirits' causing one to see spirits as he first pouted and then staggered along on his way.

Several months later; an ocean voyage away, back in Asako's island country and many miles from her father's house, in a small seaside town another drama was playing itself out. Local authorities had surrounded a murderer  they were pursuing. In his haste to escape, the outlaw grabbed a young girl as hostage. Holding her tightly by the hair with one hand and his knife against her throat with the other, he attempted to barter with the lawmen. "Come closer," he threatened, "and she will bleed! Bring me a horse," he demanded. "Let me ride away and I won't harm the girl. Once outside the village I'll release her."

The traumatized child, tears streaming down, was too scared to utter a sound as the authorities inched closer, weapons in hand. Abruptly the leader, a police captain, signaled his men to halt, motioned to one of his subordinates who, after speaking with his superor, quickly left the scene. It wasn't long before a crowd of curious onlookers gathered, among them the terrified mother of the child, held back by two officers. After what seemed an eternity to the girl's mother the crowed parted as a lone rider astride a black horse slowly made his way forward. When the horseman was within sight of the fugitive he pulled back on the reins, bringing the animal to a halt. The rider sat motionless, his intense gaze surveying the scene. When the eyes of the criminal met those of the rider, his confidence began to waver, perspiration beading his brow as his knife hand trembled. There was something in the steel-eyed glare of the horseman that weakened the fugitive's resolve. "Come closer," he stammered. "Dismount and bring the animal here."

The rider complied, came closer and then slid from the saddle. With his right hand he tugged on the reins, urging the horse forward. When within a couple of feet of the outlaw the culprit demanded... "Stop there!"

The horseman did so, then suddenly, in less time then it takes for a knat to blink, his left arm reached across his midsection and, unsheathing the sword in his obi (belt), he sliced downward at an angle, severing the hand that held the knife at the child's throat. The swordsman flicked the blood from his blade, re-sheathed the weapon and swept up the girl to safety with his left arm, all the while holding the horse's reins with his right. All was done before the shock of what happened registered in the mind of the outlaw. Suddenly aware and screaming in agony and confusion he dropped to his knees as the peace officers rushed to subdue him. The girl's mother broke free from the men holding her and sprang forward toward her frightened daughter and the girl's savior, showering the child with hugs and kisses and the warrior with gratitude and praise. Meanwhile, the man who had been sent for a horse arrived, only to find the animal was no longer needed.

The police captain, gently pushing the hostage's mother aside, addressed the swordsman. "Who are you, sir?"

The man sighed; "Simply a passerby. One who serves the cause of justice."

The captain inquired further; "Your name, sir?"

"Ahn Sung Ji," he answered. "Formerly a samurai in the service of the emperor."

"You are Korean?"

"Yea," replied Sung Ji.

"I've not met a Korean samurai before," said the officer. "What brings you to our little seaside village?"

"Business," revealed Ahn. "I was on the way to the stables to board my horse. I've secured passage on a boat bound for China. There is a nobleman there who requires my services."

The captain nodded. "Hai...I see," he spoke slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. "I suppose I should thank you. I know you have the graditude of the child's mother. When does this boat sail?"

"At sunrise," replied Sung Ji.

"Then you should take a room at the inn," said the captain. "I'll speak to the landlord while you board your horse. He is a distant cousin. Since you've helped the child, there'll be no charge for your lodging."

"I can pay for my room," said the samurai.

"Please," said the officer. "Allow me this kindness. The man you've disabled has killed many innocents, including defenseless women. You've done our community a service."

Preferring not to argue or offend the captain, the samurai conceeded... "Hai," he said with a slight bow.

"As for your journey," said the officer, "may Heaven guide you."

"Either way," said the Korean, "it's something I'm compelled to do...must do. Like helping that child. 'Something' which I can't explain is prompting me to make this voyage. I've learned to trust those feelings when they come."

"There are those who believe mortal men and women are no more than pawns of 'Un-mei' (Fate)," mused the officer.

"Be that as it may," declared the samurai, "a promise has been made and must be kept. I have my duty. Evil never rests and those who fight against it must be always vigilant. Concerning the journey; I give it no more than a single thought. Regardless of what we do in this life, or where we go, time unfolds and Destiny awaits."

                                                                         CHAPTER THREE

In the village of Tsukimi, inside the Jade Teahouse the atmosphere was airy and light, with nary a whisper as thirsty patrons hung onto virtually every word of the bearded storyteller. Having recently returned from China he had an aura of worldliness about him the work-a-day locals held in high regard. The daily lives of the people of Tsukimi revolved around responsibilities, work and family duties, which kept them from going on ocean voyages and grand adventures. So every time Jubai the Dreamer returned to their tiny Japanese village, the Teahouse filled to capacity, the customers eager for new tales of high adventure. Jubai enjoyed his celebrity status completely as he downed one gratis cup after another. The cups were filled with the best hot sake the Jade Teahouse provided, so Jubai's stories became more intriguing as the sake did its job and the night wore on. Presently, he was entertaining his listeners with what he called a 'samurai ghost story'... "In the great Capital," he proclaimed, "it seemed as if everyone knew the name Ahn Sung Ji..."

"The 'Left Hand of God'," cried out a man from the crowd. "He was in this village just two years gone...or perhaps...was it three?"

The interruption signaled total silence for a brief moment. Then a woman shouted; "Let him tell his story!"

Jubai cleared his throat, with just a subtle hint of indignation, slowly sipped his sake as the assembly impatiently waited, then continued. "You know him as a Korean national and former samurai in the service of the emperor. He eventually became a wandering mercenary who serves the cause of justice. He is a left-handed swordsman and a brooding, fierce warrior famous for his exploits in battle and skill with the katana. Many outlaw swordsmen faced him in battle, only to meet either defeat or death. His confidence, at times, borders on conceit, yet he holds tightly to the 'bu shi-do' (warrior way) code of ethics that personifies the samurai of this, his adopted Island Nation. Always seeking new challenges and adventures, he was intrigued by a story told by nomads and travelers returning from China. They spoke of the plight of a wealthy landowner, Chiang Vu Tien, in a southern province who had spent a fortune on the construction of a toll bridge above the widest river in his region. The immense, imposing stone and wooden structure was the only means across a wide impassible river and connected the ancient road from his village to the main throughfare into the city of the governor. During daylight hours many travelers and merchants used the bridge, but at nightfall all traffic stopped. No one dared cross the foreboding structure after dark, as it was rumored the malicious, unhappy spirit of a young maiden at times appeared on the bridge, playing a haunting, melancholy tune upon her spectral flute. There were those who dared cross the bridge in darkness and lived to tell of it, but there were also those who had done so and either heard the lonesome dirge or seen the ghostly, gossamer figure. All who heard her forlorn melody were filled with dread and apprehension, while those who saw her delicate spectral form died within three days."

Jubai paused at that moment, looking forlornly into his empty cup. The sudden stillness was interrupted as the landlord quickly poured a fresh cup, and a longhaired, almond-eyed waitress hurried to place the drink on the table within the storyteller's reach. So focused on the drink, Jubai didn't notice the frightened expressions on the faces of some patrons, nor was he aware of the murmuring that followed his mention of the specter's flute.

"A flute...?" voiced a waitress.

The landlord glared at her: his youngest daughter, Asuka, which prompted her to hurry over to retrieve empty cups from a table. The little drama escaped Jubai as he took another soothing drink. After sipping the hot sake and savoring its effects for a moment he continued his tale. "Chiang Tien feared Heaven, 'yu-lai' (ghost) and spirits, but he loved money more than he feared these things. He knew if travelers were afraid to cross the bridge at night his toll profits would dwindle. Not wishing to tempt Fate, he never visited that bridge after dark, nor personally investigated the rumors that had spread throughout the region. Over time the sightings increased, the tales becoming more sinister as they were passed from one person to another, which is the nature of rumors. Travelers even carried tales of the haunting back to their homelands. The ghostly events finally led Chiang to offer a reward to anyone who could end the curse. Every Taoist priest, monk, mystic or ghost chaser who tried failed, some meeting the same fate as others who had seen the transparent image of the young girl floating above the polished planks of the infamous bridge. When the story of Chiang's plight reached Ahn Sung Ji, he sent a message to the landowner offering his services. Immediately Chiang Tien invited the mercenary to his homeland and castle. Unknowningly guided by Fate the warrior accepted the invitation, secured passage on a sea faring vessel and began the journey that would take him to a place he could never imagine; a journey that would lead him to a confrontation with the dead...a journey toward predestination."

Jubai paused to take another drink. Many captivated listeners followed the example, to the displeasure of the landlord. Eager to hear more they were neglecting their cups, giving full attention to Jubai's tale. Anxious for profit, the landlord, Toshiro, prompted the almond-eyed girl to bring Jubai more sake, then... "Mariko Chan," he called out, "Help your sister Asuka serve the patrons." Turning his attention to those assembled he encouraged... "Drink, drink. The night is young."

"Hai," declared an elderly man. "Bring a fresh container to our table!" Some ordered rice wine as Mariko, Asuka and the other serving maids rushed to fill empty cups. Placing his on the table, the Japanese nomad immediately grasped the new one Asuka Chan placed before him, took a long drink, sighed heavily and then continued... "The voyage began beneath a blue sky that soon became overcast and dark with foreboding clouds. The blue sea became gray, reflecting the changing sky, while dense, black clouds billowed and swirled as the winds increased, blowing with fierce intensity over massive waves that rose and descended, speedily driving the small ship toward an uncertain Destiny. Eventually the vessel, having successfully weathered the storm, reached the China coast intact and from the tiny seaport the warrior traveled five days by wagon to the nearest village, then proceeded on foot. Following the main road to the fabled bridge he eventually reached the notorious site, where he explained to the toll-master why he had come. "There will be no charge for you to cross," said the man. "Once you reach the other side follow the road to the village. When there, anyone can direct you to the city and the castle of Chiang Tien."

Jubai was interrupted at that point... "What is this bridge like?" queried one of the men in the crowd.

"The bridge is long...serpentine," replied Jubai after a frustrated pause, "more than a half mile in length, it curves, and is wide enough for two wagons to pass in opposite directions and still there would be room on either side for those walking or on horseback. The bridge was fashioned similar to our bridges, but different in design, as there are few Japanese artisans on the continent. The Chinese built this bridge partially with Japanese wood, and with Chinese mortar and stone. It is a great accomplishment, constructed in the way of Chinese bridges and built to withstand the river's currents , the elements and the ravages of time."

Jubai took another drink, causing his body to shake involuntarily. Gathering his composure he continued... "No one can know the sensation of having finally reached that bridge, or what Ahn Sung Ji's thoughts were as he stood before it." 

"There is one among you who knows!" said a voice abruptly. Startled, Jubai turned his attention toward a dark corner. All eyes were suddenly averted to the brooding figure seated there in the shadows. Jubai was mortified. The stranger's voice was commanding and confident, like that of someone in authority.

The storyteller stammered as he inquired... "May I ask, sir, who are you?"

"One who knows what Ahn Sung Ji's thoughts were as he stood before that bridge," the stranger answered curtly. "I can tell you all," said he, "that it was springtime, and although the weather was mild beneath a sunlit sky an air of tragedy permeated the atmosphere of that place, and even in the light of day the samurai sensed an ominous presence. An icy chill ran up his spine as he stepped onto the massive wooden structure. Momentarily surprised by the involuntary spasm that shook his tensed shoulders, he paused as his heart raced and beads of perspiration formed on his furrowed brow. His sense of dread abruptly shifted to one of 'wi-heom-han' (danger...risk), as if a dark force of extreme fierceness and violent rage suddenly gripped his soul; a malignant maelstrom that caused him to suddenly freeze. It was as if the 'bridge' knew he was a man of blood.

The toll-man, puzzled by the samurai's behavior, asked... "Why do you hesitate?"

The question was followed by silence. As the toll-keeper awaited a reply, a mournful wind rose abruptly, blowing briskly with purpose amidst the sullen, icy quiet. The wind soon subsided and all was silent once again.The wind and the toll-man's voice, piercing the quiet gloom, brought the samurai back to the moment... "The air seems colder atop this bridge," he said. "As if death itself resides here."

The toll-man mused; "You're not the first one to say that. Most likely you won't be the last..."

Without looking back, Sung Ji asked... "What do you know of the curse? Is there truth to the rumors?"

The man at his back replied... "Perhaps...perhaps not. I've heard it said that a forest died so this bridge could live. As for the undead...my predecessor was claimed to have seen the girl; the face of an angel, her body delicate and transparent, she was floating amid a swirling mist. I'm not certain if he heard the haunting melody of her flute. But it is said that all who've seen her died within three days. He died within that time. Fell from a balcony I was told, his face twisted in terror. But then, he was a drunk...was drunk when he died. He was beating his wife after she had caught him with another woman. It was she who told the authorities he cried out in fright, something about a devil woman in blue, just before he backed over the railing. She said she saw no woman, that there was no one else there. There have been more tales like that, all connected to the specter in blue and this bridge. But these are only stories I've heard. I've never stayed here past sunset...the night and the darkness are different here. Darker...malevolent... Even the stars flee the blackness; or so I've heard. Always departing at twilight, I've seen nothing. Heard nothing. But I've felt the cold and sensed tragedy in the air. At times I've detected the smell of jasmine, even though there is no jasmine anywhere near this place. Look about, warrior. Even the birds, rodents and reptiles avoid this bridge. I've never seen so much as an insect come near."

Sung Ji scowled, pouted, muttered a curse, and then proceeded on his way. There was something unearthly about the bridge, nothing that could be seen, but rather felt; something in the atmosphere. With each step his apprehension grew. He felt as though he was precariously approaching an appointment with Destiny, just as you've said, Jubai the Dreamer."

Jubai flinched at the mention his name, momentarily taking another drink as the stranger continued the tale... "Abruptly Sung Ji paused once more as the scent of jasmine filled the air, and for just a moment he thought he heard the lilting melody of a flute carried on the late afternoon breeze. The jasmine scent stirred something secured deep within memory...something familar, yet he couldn't quite determine what it was. Listening intently, he percieved only the wind and the distant, forlorn cry of a lone seagull. "That tune..." he mused. "I've heard it before...long ago."

The toll-man strained his ears, then said... "I hear only the wind."

Sung Ji turned to face him. "Only the wind?"

The man nodded his head. "Perhaps the flute is not for me to hear. I've heard stories of those who were accompanied by others when crossing this bridge. One may hear the specter's song, while their companion will hear only the wind."

"Ara-so (I see)," replied the Korean. "Kam-sam-ni-da (Thank you), for your help."

Then, shaking off the feeling of impending doom Sung Ji quietly proceeded, angry with himself for his hesitation and the confusion that stifled his resolve. He was, after all, a soldier who had bravely faced overwhelming odds many times; but this was different...it was the 'Unknown'. Yet in spite of the warning signals he had an agenda and could not waste time over concern for fables or rumors. Refusing to give it another moment of consideration, he crossed the bridge in the failing light.

He found his way to Chiang Vu Tien; a man who wondered why a samurai who didn't believe in spirits would accept the task of lifting a curse. Sung Ji explained that in his experience, where there was death there were usually men to blame and not phantoms. "If I fail," he told the landowner, "you owe me nothing." Thus he began his investigation, speaking first with local authorities, religious leaders who had failed to find a solution and those who had known victims of the haunting. In every case he discovered that those who had fallen victim to the curse were either self-proclaimed priests or magicians who proved to be charlatans that took unfair advantage of believers, or were disreputable, ruthless men who bullied or were abusive to others.

"Seems to me," concluded the Korean, "this girl, phantom or not, is doing the community a service." Of course Tien could not accept that conclusion and just let matters be, as it did nothing to solve his problem. Whether innocents or troublemakers were falling victim to the curse was incidental; the haunting had a negative effect on profits. Being a matter of money Sung Ji knew that Tien would be relentless in his efforts to remedy the situation. Too, Sung Ji could not just walk away; his reputation would suffer. He never before failed to fulfill a commitment or complete what he had begun. After having looked into the matter his curiosity was aroused and he was determined to discover the truth."

All those in the Jade Teahouse listened intently as the man in the shadows told his story, which, some thought, rivaled those of Jubai the Dreamer. The stranger was articulate, obviously educated, knowledgeable, and weaved an interesting tale. Meanwhile, although mortified, a brooding Jubai held his tongue and dared not interrupt the storyteller. Some instinct told him the stranger was a man to be wary of, like a sleeping tiger.

"In his search for the truth," the man continued, "the samurai was told by many that there was a magician who dwelled outside the city; a healer who appeared to be in tune with Heaven. "In fact," said one of the citizens, "that mystic looked into the situation for Chiang, but for some unknown reason chose to do nothing about it. Still, if anyone can help you solve the puzzle, it is Kwai the Seer."

And so, without further hesitation, the swordsman left the safety of the city walls behind and entered the wilderness in search of the wizard." 

                                                                   CHAPTER 4

"You seek to unravel the mystery of the haunted toll bridge."

The matter-of-fact-statement caught Sung Ji by surprise. He had just met the Chinese mystic and had only given his name when introducing himself. He said nothing more, yet Kwai somehow 'knew' why he had come.

"How did you know that?" asked the Korean.

Kwai, who had been watching the steam languidly rise from his teacup raised his head and eyed Sung Ji. After a brief pause he asked: "What? Is it a secret? If you don't want others to know these things then don't take ocean voyages and don't go on ghost hunts. Just stay home."

Again the samurai was surprised by Kwai's unexpected response. He had revealed nothing about his journey, from where he had come or why.

"I just wondered," Sung Ji began, " how you knew..."

Before he could finish speaking, Kwai interrupted; "Is this an interview?" he asked sarcastically. "Have you come to seek my help or pry into my affairs? Perhaps you simply want to become an apprentice?"

"I hoped you could help," replied Ahn as he lowered his eyes, bowing his head respectfully. He wasn't certain, but imagined just for an instant he saw Kwai smile. 'Perhaps', reasoned Sung Ji, 'he is playing some kind of magician's mind game'. The shaman reminded him of his first Martial Art Teacher. He too, always spoke in riddles.

Momentarily Kwai drank from his cup and after savoring the taste, returned to the matter of the  haunting... "Evil in life, evil in death," he said. "But this one, although she has a huge grievance, is not evil. There are those who, after death, find they've left too much unresolved and can't move on."

Sung Ji wondered aloud... "Then where are they if no longer here?"

"They?" said Kwai, "Presently, allow me to focus on this one single spirit."

The samurai bowed his head submissively.

Kwai cleared his throat, paused a moment to empathize his indignation, then continued... "She dwells in an empty space between this world and the world of after-death. The distance between the spirit world and this one is non-existent, yet very great. She is lost, perhaps afraid. She is lonely, sad, confused, angry and spiteful...but she is not evil. It isn't her nature, but in her confusion she is close to despair, close to stepping outside the boundaries of reason or sanity. At the moment she can do little more than drift in this world, but her spiritual powers will develope in time. When, I can't be certain. But this I know; a vengeful, ireful or insane spirit is one to be feared. That type of ghost is unpredictable, lethal and dangerous. She isn't like that, at least not presently."

Sung Ji listened in silencewhile scanning the room as he sat on the floor at the polished cherry wood table, a steaming cup of ginseng and herbal tea in front of him. The room resembled those of most Chinese physicians or herbalists; it was quaint, and decorated with charts depicting the nervous system, muscular system and human skeletal structure. Acupuncture needles and glass bulbs were on a shelf to his left. Wooden cabinets with multiple small drawers lined the walls, filled no doubt with various herbs, healing plants and other medicines. Kwai appeared to be a sensible, educated man, but not an ordinary one. There was something extraordinary about him, something Sung Ji sensed, but couldn't explain.

"I can't concede to superstition," said the samurai. "Ghosts and spirits...do such things exist? To my knowledge I've never seen a ghost or demon."

Kwai stroked his long, thin white beard, as if in silent contemplation before he spoke; "And how would you know that? Do you think they wear banners or signs? One cannot see the wind, yet it moves the limbs and stirs the leaves of the trees. We feel it, though it is invisible, and can see its effects. We can't see the air, yet breathe it unceasingly, for without it we can't exist. We can't see the Creator, yet we see the result of his handiwork all around us."

"Rumor has it," said the Korean, "that this specter is responsible for many deaths. Travelers are afraid to use Chiang's toll bridge after dusk, as they say she haunts that place."

"She is connected to that bridge," said Kwai. "How or why I don't know. She seems attracted to that place by a powerful, overwhelming anxiety. Her sorrow is intense and I feel she is seeking retribution...or deliverance. Wherever it is she dwells, she has no conception of 'time; she simply sleeps. Each time she reveals herself it is because 'awareness' awakens her: an awareness of something amiss; a disturbance in the balance or harmony of this temporal plane. As for those who perished after having seen her, look closely into it. None were killed directly by that phantom. They brought about their own destruction through guilt or fear. It was due to a guilty conscience or karma. It was their Fate, earned by their evil deeds and actions. Each soul is rewarded or punished according to their merits. Heaven repays good with good and evil with evil. It is the unwritten law of karma. Having lived in this world until now, doing what you do, I'm amazed you didn't know that."

"I knew it," declared Sung Ji, "but like many others I need to be reminded from time to time."

Kwai smiled knowingly, paused for a sip of tea and then continued. Sung Ji patiently listened to every detail of the wizard's discourse. He spoke as plainly about mystical things as ordinary people would speak of the weather. But Kwai was not ordinary. Something about the diminuitive healer told the Korean he was sincere and his judgement could be trusted: he had a 'gift'. Though they had just met, Sung Ji felt as if he had known him a lifetime. Too, there was something otherworldly about him. He had a perceptible aura that could not be seen, but sensed. The samurai was inclined to believe him. After all, he had already told him things concerning himself that the seer could not have simply known.

Sung Ji's introspection did not go unnoticed; "You seem to be a 'thinking man'," said Kwai. "Above all else, what do you seek?"

"Clarity," replied the Korean matter-of-factly.

"That requires a refining of the senses," said Kwai. "As for me, I've learned to sense the gathering of clouds, the rise and fall of the waves, the coming and going of the tides and the breeze when it is no more than a whisper." Noting Sung Ji's reaction, the wizard smiled. "That is what others will tell you when asked about old Kwai. While I possess skills that ordinary men and women do not, I am no magician. What talents I have I use to help others. In my effort to help you now, there is something important you should know, something I'm compelled to say. Your karma is somehow connected to that of this troubled sprite. How or why I can't say, but this I know; her solution lies with you, and the door to freedom that you seek can only be opened by her."

Sung Ji was confused. 'Just what can that mean', he wondered; how could his Destiny be connected to a lost soul in China? Was the doorway which Kwai spoke of a passageway that led to death, where once having entered a mortal would be finally free of the cares and woes of this world? If that were so, if his death came because of this lost spirit, then so be it. He did not fear death; it was the price one paid for having lived in the first place and as a warrior was something he learned to accept long ago. But spirits...that was the 'Unknown', of which most people had a healthy fear. Momentarily lost in reflection, he unconsciously gave voice to his thoughts; "...spirits...the supernatural..." his words trailed off just before he became aware of Kwai staring at him inquisitively. Addressing the shaman he said; "This thing called Fate; there are times when I wonder if it indeed exists...if there truly is such a thing."

"Times you say," echoed Kwai. "What times?"

"Moments of weariness...or weakness I suppose," replied the Korean.

"Ah, that's natural," offered the Chinese. "There are times when I wonder, because of my distinctive talents, whether I've been blessed by Heaven...or cursed. Wondering is a waste of time and energy. As for Fate; those things which may or may not be ordained...by employing wisdom, self-restraint and proper action an individual may change the outcome of what has been set into motion, and alter or direct their Destiny."

The samurai was silent, carefully reflecting on the shaman's words. Kwai studied him a moment, then continued. "You carry a heavy burden. Though you may hide it well from others you cannot hide it from yourself, nor from me. Your expertise is combat and the sword, but one cannot solve spiritual matters with weapons of war. There is, however, a man whose path you will cross; your martial skills will be required and tested at that time. Before your task is completed you will learn to embrace the 'stillness of the storm'. Only then will the truth of your Destiny be revealed. Be content for now to know that your Destinies, yours and hers, are intertwined."

Many in the Jade Teahouse gasped when the stranger said those words. The little town of Tsukimi was like most others populated by superstitious individuals who blamed every calamity on bad luck or the actions of others, as if they themselves had nothing whatsoever to do with it. At that moment a woman in the crowd stammered... "I recall...that man, Ahn Sung Ji, was here not long ago; two or three years past it was."

"I've already said that," voiced an impatient man in the crowded room. "He was chasing those three criminals; Miyamoto and his cohorts."

There were strange happenings after that," said another. "The woodsman and his daughter..."

"The sakura (cherry) blossoms were blood red that year, falling like teardrops just three days after they died," interrupted an inebriated farmer. "That never happened before or since. I saw her face once, in that tree when tending the gravesite."

"The girl was seen often after her death," stammered an elderly woman. "Even in the light of day, she was seen by the stream, and in the forest, walking as if in a daze. Now people here avoid the mountain and those woods, even when it is time for moon viewing."

"I saw her face in that tree..." yelled the drunken farmer, louder this time.

"That's enough!" bellowed the landlord," who could eaisly yell louder than anyone else, no doubt due to years of experience operating a teahouse and pub. "Don't speak of it!" he commanded. All eyes turned toward him. "We took an oath. All of us agreed never to speak of it again."

"Hai," said a woman, "things have been quiet here for almost a year now. Don't talk of the past. It may tempt Heaven and can only bring us worse luck."

Jubai had been quietly sitting, brooding over his sake while the others were talking among themselves. "Monkeys..." he snorted in contempt.

Finally the landlord insisted... "Let the man continue his story."

The stranger in the corner was quiet while those assembled gossiped, sipping his drink and ignoring what he considered empty-headed prattle. In fact he toyed with the thought of letting Jubai finish the tale; a perfect scenario of the blind leading the blind. He thought to himself; 'One dog barks at nothing...all others bark with him'.

Once they were quiet, however, he continued his narrative... "Having listened intently to Kwai's revelations Sung Ji asked if the seer had any advice. "Only this," said Kwai. "Remember that in this life all conditions are temporary. Fearlessly follow your heart. Be it sun, shadow or storm, face life and your Fate boldly. Even a moment's hesitation or a single doubt can tip the scales. Success or failure will depend on the strength of your spirit and mind. I believe your countrymen have a proverb; 'Jung shin cha-re-yo' (Wake up)! Be alert. Stay focused."

Sung Ji was surprised to hear a Chinese man speak Korean words. He wondered where he had learned that old phrase, but didn't ask. 'Truly', he thought again, 'Kwai was no ordinary man'.

As the samurai bid farewell to Kwai, not far away, beneath a rising moon a lone horsemen slowly approached the sealed city gates. From his posture he appeared weary, perhaps having ridden a long distance. The horse upon which he rode held its head low, as if fatigued, and moved with an unsteady gait. The night winds, although strong enough to carry leaves and dried bits of grass along the ground, did little to dispel the evening mists that methodically crept in at twilight. One of the two guards at the gate hailed the rider to stop as he neared. Few came to the city after dark, so the guardsmen were wary, spears in hand, ready for the slighest hint of trouble. The one who first saw the stranger approached him cautiously, keeping what he considered a safe distance between himself and the rider. After speaking to him briefly, he signaled his companion to open the smaller latch-door in one of the twin massive gates. "You can enter," he said to the horseman. As the horse moved forward the guard, noting the blood on its right rear flank, spoke; "Wait! Your steed appears injured."

The rider pulled back on the reins, and then raised his right arm, the hand of which held a short leather crop. "He is stubborn at times," the stranger declared. "At the toll bridge earlier he refused to cross. I had to persuade him."

The guard was somber. Like many others who lived in the region, he had heard tales of the haunted bridge. He thought about asking this horseman if he had seen anything strange there, but then realized he really didn't want to know. 'Let sleeping dogs lay...' he reasoned. Too, some innate sense told him the rider was one accustomed to having his way, and perhaps if confronted directly would be difficult to deal with. "Go on with you then," said the guard. "But keep this in mind, ours is a city of law. Tread lightly while here."

The rider, quiet as the grave, did not so much as look at the spearman, but prompted the horse to move through the portal in morbid silence. The guards watched as he was slowly swallowed by blackness. "He's an odd one," said the man who had unlatched the door.

"Yes," said the other with an air of uneasiness. "He gives me an uncomfortable feeling. Perhaps we shouldn't have let him enter."

Both men flinched when the heavy door slammed shut, startled by the abrupt sound breaking the gloom of the fog-laden night. Finally one of them spoke; "I could use some rice wine..."

The other faced his comrade and, eye-to-eye, a moment of silence passed between them. Suddenly they burst into laughter. The tension in the air faded as the pair returned to the business of watching the road leading to the city. Overhead dark, ominous windswept clouds began to blot out the moon's meager light, as if heralding impending doom. The guards looked at the sky, then eachother, momentarily breaking out anew in laughter.

The horseman, meanwhile, made his way through the dimly lit streets and shadow haunted alleyways, pausing the moment he found what he was looking for. Stopping the horse before a building he eyed the sign above the door. The twin dragons pictured were discernable enough, but he couldn't read the Chinese characters. Still, he was certain it was a place where he could quench his thirst. Anyone else would have first found a stable for the lame horse, but Miyamoto had no concern for the animal. After all, he laughed inwardly as the thought occured to him; he had stolen the beast from an official in the last city in which he had worn out his welcome.

                                                                    CHAPTER 5

As Miyamoto immersed himself in the best 'spirits' the Twin Dragons provided, two kilometers away a different kind of spirit found herself possessed by an uncontrollable rage. On the night shrouded, abandoned toll bridge stood Asako Chan surrounded by an intense, rapidly swirling blue mist, now tinged with rose red hues. In her desperate mind she kept repeating the same words, over and over; "It was he... It was he... It was he!!!" The mist turned blood red as her anger increased, becoming a maelstrom that swirled faster and faster, simultaneously rising until her spectral form was completely hidden. Earlier, she had been pulled back from a brief Peace of nothingness to sudden awareness; an awareness that shocked her senses and brought her to the point of insanity. Miyamoto had crossed the bridge at the onset of dusk, just before twilight, while she was unaware. Once aware, she managed to materialize just a moment before the horse on which he rode had stepped from the bridge onto the pebble-strewn road that led to the city. The outlaw never saw her, nor sensed her presence. Self-absorbed and evil as he was, at that moment blinded by anger and malice he could not sense anything related to the spiritual realm. Earlier when he reached the toll bridge, the horse he had stolen hesitated, refusing to cross, infuriated Miyamoto to the point of mercilessly beating the animal with a hard leather crop while consistintly digging his heels into the horse's sides. Finally, its right rear flank bleeding profusely,  the beast reluctantly moved forward, limping as it made its way across the oaken planks. Once reaching the opposite side, as he slowly dissappeared into the gathering darkness, Miyamoto was completely oblivious of Asako's presence, her fury, or of her burning eyes glaring at his back.

It was the sudden knowledge of him being there, accompanied by the awareness that he carried something belonging to her that propelled her into the worst rage she had ever experienced. She sensed he had the locket her father had given her; which held a small portrait of her mother, hand painted by Toshima. Her mind raced back to that other time and place: she recalled the miniature painting was a replica of a life-sized portrait her father had done of her mother before their wedding. When her mother died, the smaller portrait was his last painting; "Artists create from their hearts and spirits," he told her. "When your mother died my heart and spirit were broken. I used the last of what I had to make that picture for the locket. Wearing it around your neck, your mother and I will always be close to your heart. As she loved you more than life itself, through the locket she will always be with you." Thinking of that, and of how Miyamoto pulled the locket from her neck while attempting to assult her stirred uncontrollable emotions. Her shock and disbelief left her rigid and motionless, unable to concieve of what to do next. 'Had the world been twisted inside out? How can any of this be...' she thought... 'how could he have that locket? Isn't it enough that he and his men killed father, assaulted me and drove me to my death? How could Heaven allow such an evil man to go on living, hurting innocent people and beasts'? As she watched the horse limp into the darkness, these thoughts plagued her consciousness, driving her closer to complete despair and madness than she had been since first becoming aware of her own death.

Others were also unaware of Miyamoto crossing the bridge or of his presence in the area. While those events transpired Ahn Sung Ji was conversing with Kwai. As far as he knew, the outlaw who escaped him nearly three years ago was still running amok in Japan. So while others, like the dark stranger, could give finer details to his version of the story Jubai the Dreamer had begun in the Jade Teahouse, there were yet some details neither man could reveal to the attentive villagers who were listening, spellbound, as the tale unfolded. There was no one who knew Asako was there, on the bridge, as Miyamoto reached the opposite side. No one who could tell others what she was feeling, with the exception of Kwai. The wizard had the 'gift' of  knowing things that were beyond the understanding of ordinary men and women. How he 'knew' these things, how he came by his power of psychic perception, was beyond his comprehension. He only knew he had a 'gift' and  was compelled to make use of it to help others, as that was the only good reason he imagined he had such a gift in the first place.

The storyteller in the shadows paused to take another drink from his cup, then continued his saga as the Jade Teahouse patrons gave their full attention... "Miles away from the Twin Dragons pub where Miyamoto was becoming drunk and surly, Sung Ji was returning from his visit with the Chinese mystic. On his way back to the city, he followed a different path from the one that earlier led him to Kwai's modest home. The alternate route took the swordsman into the hills just east of the city and Chiang's castle. The moon had risen, shedding its blue-white lunar light on the mist shrouded ground. The mild, stredy breeze was cooling to the skin, the air fresh and exhilarating. It was a good night for a stroll, although in the darkness he could not appreciate what he imagined was a pleasant view. The landscape through which he walked was dotted with small trees that became larger the further he went. Soon he could see the twin towers of a large edifice rising above the treetops to his right. Obviously some distance away, the immense structure appeared to be a castle or perhaps a temple or pagoda; he wasn't quite certain. The hills of the steep terrain through which he now trekked, like the trees, were larger than when he first left the main road. Somewhat hidden by those hills, towering trees, and the darkness of night, the tiered building seemed ominous and forbidding, almost threatening. That would have been enough to dissuade an ordinary man from further investigation, but Sung Ji was not an ordinary man. In his travels, no matter where he happened to be, he always found time to study the people, their culture, customs,art and architecture. The building beyond the trees intrigued him. In fact, the samurai believed it demanded his attention, thus he was compelled to have a closer look.

Passing just beyond the trees he entered a bamboo forest, some of the stalks reaching more than twenty or thirty feet above him; it was hard to discern in the fog shrouded darkness. The bamboo ended at the eight-foot high, handcrafted stone and mortar wall that surrounded the buildings and grounds. What at first appeared to be a single structure he discovered was in fact one of a series of buildings. The largest one with the tallest tower was no doubt a temple. Not wishing to enter the grounds like a thief he walked along the outside wall until he discovered the torii and gateway, above which he saw a sign made up of Chinese characters that read; 'Temple Moon'. When he passed beneath the torii and beyond the unsecured gate, in spite of the darkness, he could see the grounds appeared to have been kept clean of debris. The steps leading to the landing and doors of the main building were likewise clean, as if having recently been swept. Close to the temple he could just barely see what he imagined to be gravestones, which was common for monasteries or holy places. Although there were signs of maintenance, the place appeared deserted. No light showed through the rice paper of the windows of the main building and the ornate front doors were locked and secured. Sung Ji pulled the leather strap of the announcement bell three times, without result; no one came. Either those who maintained the site were sound sleepers, or perhaps it was not their habit to answer the bell at such a late hour. Most shrines or temples, he reasoned, were open to visitors at more respectable hours. The time being late, and the samurai not certain just how far he was from the city, he decided the wisest thing to do was find a place he could lay his cloak on the ground and rest. The sound of the breeze stirring the slender leaves of the bamboo was pleasing to his ears and relaxing. 'I should sleep well', he imagined. In the light of day he could see more, better appreciate the beauty of the temple buildings and grounds, and perhaps even find a well where he could quench his thirst.

By the time Sung Ji finished inspecting the grounds of the Moon Temple, and was preparing to sleep, miles away in the city at the Twin Dragons pub Miyamoto already successfully managed to alienate a handful of patrons. After touching a serving girl inappropriately, and eventually the landlord's daughter, he found himself facing the points of at least five swords and a trio of daggers. Having drawn his own sword he backed his way to the exit, and once there began screaming and swinging the blade erratically before turning and crashing headlong through the door, tearing it from its hinges. Once outside he kept running, leaving the lame, stolen horse behind. Having absolutely no idea where he was going he rushed into the night-darkened streets, eventually turning into an even darker alleyway in an attempt to escape the group of angry, sword-wielding men at his back. For an instant he managed to elude them, until, running blindly he tripped and fell into a makeshift bamboo shelter, startling and awakening the sleeping man inside. The sleeper awoke, yelling curses: "Get out of my house..." his voice echoed as Miyamoto scrambled to his feet and continued his retreat, fired on by the approaching sounds of the men who had chased him from the Twin Dragons. Eventually putting a couple of hundred yards between himself and his pursuers, Miyamoto managed to gain a second wind as he heard the previously sleeping beggar shout; "He went that way... He smashed my house...!"

As the inebriated outlaw picked up the pace, stumbling haphazardly along, he was oblivious of the old woman seated on her second story balcony, stroking her fat Persian cat and laughing with glee as she eyed the chase. Miyamoto, so intent on eluding pursuers and bent on escape could care less about his surroundings or if others observed his frenzied flight. Running headlong through the streets and just as quickly running out of breath, his panic ridden mind reasoned the best thing to do was find a good hiding place. Just a few feet ahead he spied the mouth of another alley. Reaching the site he made an abrupt turn into the darkened corridor between the buildings. Running full speed he managed to cover less than twenty feet before briskly slamming into a brick wall, almost knocking himself out cold. As he lay there in the darkness slipping into unconsciousness he was completely hidden from his pursuers as they passed by the entrance of the dead end alley he had chosen in his flight. While the sound of their running feet and angry shouts echoed into the night and distance, the druken outlaw spiraled into the merciful shelter of a deep sleep.

                                                                                CHAPTER 6

Sung Ji awoke to see Kwai's smiling face a couple of inches from his nose, peering down at him. Startled, the Korean quickly rose to a seated position and cleared his throat before he accused the shaman: "Are you trying to ruin my day, showing that face of yours so early in the morning?"

The old man, having moved back briskly, laughed as he stretched out a hand to help the samurai rise. Once on his feet, Sung Ji marveled; "Wah! You're stronger than you appear. You almost pulled my arm from the socket."

"Are you that delicate," taunted Kwai. "I barely exerted myself."

"Well," said the samurai, "perhaps you don't know your own strength."

Kwai laughed as Sung Ji rubbed his shoulder, after which he stretched, yawned, and proceeded to brush the dust from his clothes before asking; "What brings you to this place?"

"Duty," replied Kwai. "Did you think I was following you? I'm the caretaker of this temple. It was the responsibility of the monks, one of whom is a nephew. But all of them, including my nephew, left on a pilgrimage to Tibet. I promised the abbot I would care for the place until they returned. That was more than a year ago."

The Korean had heard of Tibet; and of the vast plains, majestic mountains, snow covered peaks and dense forests that were home to many Buddhist monasteries and retreats. "Is Tibet far from here?" he asked.

"Very far," said Kwai, "or not that far. It depends on one's perception."

Sung Ji was speechless. Kwai had a way of confusing even the most simple of questions, which was typical of monks or mystics. "Well now, I suppose that answers my question," said Ahn, "or perhaps not."

Kwai ignored the statement. If Sung Ji could read his thoughts he would know the Chinese healer was beginning to like him. "It is odd indeed," said Kwai, "that anyone not born Japanese would be accepted and taught as samurai. But I've lived long enough in this world to know that anything is possible. Did you think you would find the answers to your puzzle here?"

"No," said Sung Ji, "not at all. I was curious about this place. When passing by last night I decided to rest here and have a better look after sunrise."

Kwai nodded; "There is a well behind the main building, if you wish to drink and wash that dusty face of yours. When you've finished you can help me sweep the steps and courtyard. I will let you attend to the area behind the living quarters; it's paved with loose stones and cleaning it of leaves and small debris really gives me a backache."

"What about my investigation?" inquired Ahn.

"I've been thinking about that," said Kwai. "We can talk more about it when the work is done," he added with a smile.

The morning hours were spent in quiet labor, neither man speaking to the other, with the exception of Kwai spouting orders now and then. At one point Sung Ji had just opened his mouth to speak, and without looking at him, Kwai commanded... "Don't interrupt me when I'm ignoring you."

'How did he know', thought Ahn as he continued working, 'that I was going to speak'?

As they worked he realized he had been right the previous night: in the light of day he could better appreciate the beauty of the temple buildings and grounds. There was olive green moss on some of the freestanding lamps, gravestones, and at the base of the foundations of the well and some of the buildings, but that gave them character and an aura of timelessness. The buildings were colorful, but paled in comparison to the emerald green of the bamboo leaves and the pink and white blossoms of the plum trees. The blossoms, whose petals fell like snowflakes, reminded him of the sakura trees in Japan. As they busied themselves, Sung Ji embraced the moment; there was a peace in the silence between them, which drew attention to the humming of the cicadas and the singing of the birds. The samurai liked being close to nature and as far away as possible from the chaotic drama humanity created in their daily lives. 'It is truly a beautiful world Hananim (God) created', thought Ahn as he watched a pair of dragonflies pass by, 'and such a shame mankind makes a big mess of things'. His pleasant thoughts were interrupted when, while removing twigs from a garden, Kwai disturbed an emerald green snake. As it coiled to strike, Sung Ji was amazed to see Kwai quickly dart to one side while simultaneously tossing his rake in the air, grabbing and twirling it and with the opposite end lash out while spinning the shaft, wrapping the snake around it and tossing the reptile safely onto a nearby tree limb. Afterward he flipped the rake over and continued cleaning without so much as a pause. The swordsman wasn't certain who was more stunned, he or the snake that found itself suddenly looking down rather than up at the diminutive Chinese. Sung Ji was shocked the old man could move so quickly and dexterously, all the while showing absolutely no emotion. Kwai continued working until, aware of Sung Ji watching him, he abruptly turned his attention toward the samurai, eying him with a stern gaze. Sung Ji opened his mouth to speak but before he could utter a word Kwai said; "Don't interrupt me when I'm correcting you."

Stifled, Sung Ji cleared his throat and quickly went back to his broom, sweeping fallen leaves from the shaded courtyard. Satisfied, Kwai returned to work as well. They spent the rest of the morning cleaning quietly until there was nothing left to do. As they sat resting Sung Ji brought up the incident of the snake, still lying contently on the limb upon which it landed. Before the samurai knew what was happening, Kwai, rather than give a verbal reply, jumped to his feet, and springing forward, pulled the jade handled dagger from Ahn's waist belt and slashed twice  at a falling leaf, cutting it into four equal parts. Before the pieces of leaf touched the ground Kwai spun in a circle, returning the dagger to Ahn's belt and himself to the same place in which he had been sitting. Sung Ji gasped.

"My father was a general in the army," said Kwai. "He began training me in Martial Arts when I was very young. It was the only thing he did that my mother complained about. She wanted me to be a man of books and medicine. In order to please the two of them I worked constantly to master all three skills."

"You're consistently catching me off-guard," said Ahn, "like that green snake."

"Of course," said Kwai. "That's the point; be unpredictable. One should never reveal all there is to reveal about oneself. If so, one's enemies would always know what to expect. I'm certain that one of the first lessons you learned in your martial training was how important is the element of surprise."

Both men laughed, after which Kwai asked what Sung Ji planned to do next in his efforts to solve the riddle of the haunted bridge. The Korean revealed that after speaking with relatives and or friends of those who had fallen victim to the curse, as well as Chiang Vu Tien, the local authorities and Kwai himself, he wasn't left with many options.

"Have you considered," suggested Kwai, "going to the toll bridge before dusk? Keep a vigil there after dark. See what, if anything, transpires."

"The thought occured to me," said Ahn, "as a perfect last resort. I've faced men in battle, either a single man or many. I've faced armies whose war drums, coupled with the footfalls of the infantry and the hooves of the horses sounded as thunder and shook the earth like a quake, unnerving even the bravest and most stalwart of swordsmen. But this bridge, even crossing it while the sun shone...it's uncanny."

"Most people," offered Kwai, "fear what they can't see or touch. That fear is of something that exists not outside, but inside of their heads; it exists only in the mind. Their concerns are unfounded, like children fearing the dark. Truly, one should fear those who have no fear of Heaven, and fear the darkness within oneself. As for those things that exist outside of this physical world: it is common to dread confrontation with things not of this earth, but for one whose conscience is clear, there should be no concern. Those who honor the dead have no need to fear the dark."

"You have a way," said Sung Ji, "of simplifying even the most complicated of things."

Elsewhere, Miyamoto, who had the unenviable habit of complicating even the most simplest of things, was nursing a headache; the result of too much rice wine the previous night, and a head-first collision with a stone wall. The outlaw was not certain which pained him more; the after effects of drinking too much, the brick wall he blindly ran into, or the after effects of running for his life from several of the Twin Dragons patrons. Sadly, he wasn't intelligent enough to realize his problems were the direct result of bad judgement, bad choices and improper actions. His lack of manners, rude and unlawful behavior had become a way of life, and the thought of changing habits never occured to him. He was incorrigible, beyond hope, like many of the criminals and fugitives Sung Ji dealt with in the past. All were marauders or murderers, and being unmanageable there was no reforming such men. They were a threat to honest society, which in turn justified their elimination by any means possible. It was that equation which kept swordsmen like the 'Left Hand of God' free from guilt when forced to dispatch such depraved and delinquent individuals.

Shaking his aching head, Miyamoto decided to forget his physical complaints and focus on his need for funds, food and transportation. He was hungry, but had spent what little money he had the night before at the Twin Dragons. Too, he managed to lose another stolen horse when he fled on foot from the men he angered there. His current needs and evil crafty mind thus prompted him to desperately plot and scheme once again.

                                                                       CHAPTER 7

Sung Ji was lost in contemplation, standing as motionless as a finely hewn statue atop Chiang Vu Tien's toll bridge. The quiet and stillness, save for the intermittent chirping and droning of crickrts and circadas in the distance, Reminded him of the 'meditation veranda' at his Master's mountain training center. It was a place that, as a young boy, he could forget for awhile the arduous daily training and duties that kept his body constantly aching. Always there at night, he thought of it as a magical place where he could dream of grand adventures and far away places. Now grown and a long way from that pavilion, tonight he was experiencing one of those grand adventures and far away places that he once could only dream of.

He had come to the bridge just before nightfall and after speaking briefly to the toll man he bid him farewell as the man, wishing Sung Ji Heaven's protection, departed at dusk. The samurai, having throughly investigated the mystery of the deaths attributed to the haunted bridge, surmised the only thing left to do was keep a nocturnal watch at the site of the ghostly appearances. It wasn't his conclusion alone, but also the suggestion of his newfound ally, Kwai. The Chinese seer appeared to know more about the case than he had until now revealed, but Sung Ji was accustomed to such secretive and eccentric behavior from mystics and shamans. The main difference between old Kwai and others of his kind the warrior had encountered was that Kwai appeared genuine; he was no trickster.

Sung Ji had walked the length of the bridge three times in the three or four hours since the sun had set. Each time he approached the side where the guard house stood he couldn't help but marvel at the size of the building. It was an imposing structure, three levels high with more than twenty rooms, and had been built at Chiang's request to house the first toll keeper and his family. The present toll man informed the samurai that no one used the house now; those who had in the past actually contributed to the rumors of the haunting and vacated the place once they had more-than-enough unpleasant experiences. Once abandoned by Chiang's hirelings the house, in spite of the high wall surrounding it, was often used by vagabonds who spread even more fantastic stories, adding to the rumors of haunting melodies, unnatural mists and other strange happenings. Now, the toll bridge infamous, the house remained abandoned. As he stared at the building, the fact that such a grand house was constructed in the first place made him realize Chiang was considerate toward those whom he employed. He had wealth, but was willing to share it, and evidently took good care of his people.

Sung Ji took in a deep breath. The night was quiet, the weather mild with just the hint of a cool, lightly moving breeze. A thin fog had formed on the surface of the river at twilight, gradually rising and increasing in density after dark. Stars winked above in the night sky and a full moon offered subdued light, which did little to dispel the gloom. But Sung Ji liked that, and at the moment was enjoying the solitude. He was close to the end of the bridge on the city side when he abruptly stopped pacing, overcome by a sudden, mounting uneasiness. Feeling as if he was being watched, he momentarily detected the subtle scent of jasmine gently carried on the night winds. As the aroma gradually intensified, his ears, attuned to the slightest of sounds, detected the deligate, nearly inaudible touching of falling leaves beneath the trees a few yards away. Abruptly he detected the sound of a flute, almost indistinguishable from the moaning of the wind and twittering of the fallen leaves. It was a sad sonata, carried on the breeze with the sweet smell of jasmine. Within moments the flute became louder, no longer resonating from a distance, but in fact appeared to be coming from behind him. Turning slowly, he was gripped by a startling fear as he beheld a transparent form taking shape out of the rising mist. He strained his keen vision to see what at first seemed to be a trick of the eyes. Just a few feet away he saw the blue wisp of smoke was suddenly surrounded by iridescent specks of blue, appearing almost as fireflies in the gray mist, at first a few and then more, languidly coming together, gently swirling in the fog. Slowly the blue became a mist within the mist, became heavier, thicker, and centralized just above the wooden planks. Sung Ji gasped involuntarily as, within the blue, a deeper-hued blue vapor appeared, gradually assuming the slender shape of  a longhaired maiden playing a flute. The girl had her back to him, as if oblivious of his presence, albeit something told him she knew quite well he was there.

He was so captivated by the vision that the thought of the curse had, until this moment, eluded him. 'Too late', he told himself. Even if he turned away and left the bridge now it would be a moot point; he had seen the specter and was too spellbound to move. As he watched, the fog rose and swirled about the wraith-like form. She suddenly began to rotate with it, turning slowly until finally facing an immobile and transfixed Sung Ji, mesmerized by her beauty. Momentarily he blinked, and the angelic vision was gone. The shock of her abrupt disappearance was short lived, however, as he felt an intense cold at his back. Turning apprehensively, he was shocked to find the phantom's transparent form within a few inches from him, her blue, spectral eyes staring directly into his. Startled, he stepped back quickly, his left hand instinctively going for his long sword. He blinked again and once more the ghostly maiden was gone. Turning his back again, quickly this time and with a hint of purpose, he found the apparition once more directly behind him, her transparent face just inches from his. He gasped, just before he managed to yell... "Tora-ka' (Go back)!" in his native Korean. The blue mist expelled as if by an explosion, without a sound, leaving a stunned and trembling Sung Ji alone in the dark. The smell of jasmine gradully subsided, and the melancholy sound of her flute trailed off in the distance, echoing as if from far away, soon followed by a heavy silence. What happened was over and done with so quickly he found himself wondering if the frighting phenomenon had actually occured.

Just how much time passed after the appearance of the apparition before he managed to gather his thoughts he was uncertain. He stood motionless for what seemed an eon, contemplating the event. Of one thing he was certain; the specter didn't appear threatening. She seemed somber, melancholy, curious, and he sensed an intense lonliness about her and a sense of helplessness. She had shown herself, but didn't attack him. He was shaken, like any person would be if facing something otherworldly and unexplainable, but he didn't sense danger in the way he would have if facing a deadly adversary. Eventually he decided to return to Kwai's place. Perhaps the shaman could help him evaluate what he had, or imagined he had just experinced. With that goal in mind he set out for Kwai's retreat, failing to notice the wraith in blue, standing silent and serene on the bridge in the darkness a hundred yards distance, watching him intently as he quietly walked away. 

Not long after he departed, a lone rider arrived deep in the night. It was an inebiated Miyamoto, an almost empty jug of rice wine in one hand, mounted upon yet another stolen horse. The outlaw had decided to leave the city under the cover of darkness following his latest escapades. The authorities there, he surmised, were more organized and capable than he had imagined. Such a metropolis was no place for an outlaw like himself who preferred bullying others and taking his needs by stealth or force from those to defenselesss to resist. Precariously seated on the horse, he was pleased to discover the gate blocking access to the bridge was unsecured, not that it would have mattered; he would have forced it open if necessary. Miyamoto had broken many locks in his long criminal career. But here and now it was not a locked gate that would delay his departure; it was the frightened horse upon which he rode. As he approached the bridge the animal balked and halted, then attempted to turn away. Miyamoto pulled back hard on the reins, dissuading the horse from turning. Still resisting, it pressed down forcefully with its forelegs, and pushing off began to back up. Losing patience, the drunken outlaw shouted curses as he dug his heels into the animals sides. Taking the last drink of wine he discarded the container and struck the animal's left flank several times with an open hand, to no avail. Not wishing to cripple the stubborn beast he dismounted and, pulling on the reins, walked the animal across, muttering curses and complaining as he went... "What is it with this bridge? he questioned. "No creature wants to cross it..."

He managed to go only a few yards when the horse began to violently resist, neighing and snorting, its breath escaping in clouds from flared nostrils as it twisted its head this way and that, all the while trying to pull free from Miyamoto's grip. Finally doing so, it raised up on its back legs, causing the drunken, unsteady Japanese to fall backward. Miyamoto landed heavily on his backside accompanied by a loud 'thud'. The sound startled the already frightened animal all the more. Neighing loudly and fearfully, it turned then and bolted into the night, leaving the mortified outlaw, his mouth agape, sitting alone on the bridge, staring wide-eyed and speechless. Following the animal's retreat, a cemetary-like silence descended over the area. A brief moment passed before an icy breeze stirred fallen leaves that clicked and twittered as they passed over the oak surface upon which Miyamoto sat. He just managed to gather his thoughts, as much as he could in his present drunken stupor, when a feeling of dread settled over him like a funeral pall. 'What now'? he managed to think as the breeze returned, this time bringing with it a more intense chill.

At that precise moment, like a sudden clap of thunder, the slight breeze became a gust of wind that almost knocked him completely over. As he struggled to stand he became aware of the pungent, overpowering sickly sweet aroma of jasmine accompanied. The extreme odor violently assailed his nostrils, making him instantly nauseous as he shivered, his body convulsing and teeth chattering. Just as suddenly as it had become a gale the night wind subsided and an isolated blue mist appeared  abruptly before him, within which his eyes percieved a human form. Startled, yet composed enough to draw his blade, Miyamoto stared in disbelief as he realized the form was transparent, but solidifying as the mist about it turned from blue to rose to deep crimson red. The form within the vapor was that of a young maiden, one whose features he recognized, but couldn't readily recall from where or when. Once the apparition knew he was aware of her presence her angelic, child-like face mutated into a monstrous, demonic countenance distorted by extreme rage. Sad eyes became full of malice, protruded violently, turning bright red as her perfectly formed lips parted, her mouth enlarging to three times its normal size. Pristine white teeth elongated, becoming carnivorous fangs. Her long, cascading velvet strands of black hair joined to form numerous tentacles that seemed to come alive, gyrating, twisting and then reaching out and forward as the tips turned crimson and burst into flame. In less time than it takes to generate a single thought, the spectral form standing, or floating within the red mist, accompanied by an horrific scream of rage, launched itself at the fear stricken outlaw, exploding into a red cloud of dust-like particles as it collided with, and simultaneously passed through him. As the ghostly scream lingered momentarily, becoming an echoing wail, Miyamoto felt as if his insides and his very soul were being pulled and ripped apart. His head pounded painfully as the impact spun him in a circle, nearly causing him to lose his balance. Feeling as though he would vomit, the terrified brigand jerked his head this way and that, turning about, his eyes darting in all directions in search of the phantom. To his astonishment he found himself completely alone, frightened, dazed and wretched. The terrifying wraith had vanished. At that moment his trembling legs gave way, his knees buckled and he dropped like a heavy rice sack to the wooden planks, vomiting voraciously. His head throbbed...incomplete thoughts and disconnected words spun through his wine-addled consciousness and blurred into nothingness. "This can't be happening," he heard himself murmur. The vision had gone, but not before leaving an intense, horrifying impression on the outlaw. 'Perhaps it never happened', he reasoned, 'maybe it was just in my mind'...even as that thought occured to him, although he wasn't all that intelligent, he was smart enough to know that if indeed it was in his head, it was a bad place for it to be.

                                                                         CHAPTER 8 

Kwai listened intently as Sung Ji described his encounter with the specter in blue. While the Korean elaborated, the hint of a smile appeared on the seer's face as he nodded his head knowingly. A brief moment of silence passed once Sung Ji finished speaking. Finally Kwai spoke... "She meant you no harm. Perhaps she was curious...she is seeking someone; most likely one responsible for having done something wrong to her in life. Maybe she seeks the one or ones responsible for her death. She is a sad spirit; a lonely, lost soul."

Kwai was quiet and reflective a moment, then asked; "Did you see her face?"

"Yes...and no," replied the warrior. "She was close enough, but her features weren't clear. She was lucid, almost transparent...and it was dark."

The Chinese was contemplative. Finally he declared... "I'm still certain, although I can't tell you why, but I'm certain your Destiny is somehow intertwined or connected to hers. Perhaps she sensed that as well. Evidently you aren't the one she is seeking, which explains why she didn't harm you."

"There was something familiar about her," said Sung Ji, "her eyes..." His voice trailed off briefly, then he repeated what he said earlier; "I couldn't quite make out her features, but I'm certain I heard that melody somewhere...at some time. Even now it echoes in my mind...and the jasmine... Still, I wonder what is the significance of jasmine. And how could the aroma of jasmine be in places where there is none? I know I can sort it out if I reflect long enough. Yet, even if I discover who this spirit was in life, and why she haunts that place...will that help her rest in peace? More importantly," said the samurai, "can I do so within three days?"

Kwai smiled. "I was right about you. You have a kind heart and a genuine concern for others. Please allow me to join your quest. Something tells me that together we can achieve success."

Sung Ji was surprised... "Didn't you investigate this mystery already?"

"Yes...but I'm compelled to do so again," said Kwai. "These other-worldly matters intrigue me, and I've had experience. There was a time, long ago, when I tried to aid a family who had purchased an estate from a wealthy widow. The widow neglected to tell the buyers there was a haunted pavilion on the property. In that case, it was the unhappy ghost of a young woman whose fiancee had perished at sea. Before he left on that ill-fated voyage, she promised to wait in the spring for his return at her parent's pavilion. Once word of the tragedy reached her she fell into a deep depression that led to despair. One night she went to the pavilion and hung herself. Afterward, her spirit refused to leave that place. Like the sprite that haunts Chiang's bridge, she was a lonely, lost soul...very poor."

"Were you able to help her?"

"Sadly," said Kwai, "I could not. She intentionally killed herself. It was not just her choice to remain there waiting for the return of her first love: it was Heaven's punishment that she couldn't leave the pavilion. I believe she waits there still, longing for the return of her fiancee. It has long been my hope that it will not be an eternal wait...that Heaven will eventually grant her mercy."

Sung Ji shivered.

"What is it," questioned the shaman. "Does talk of ghosts unnerve you?"

"In my homeland," said the Korean, "there is the belief that ghosts are always around us, and when the living talk of ghosts it actually summons them...causing them to gather and listen, to discover whether or not they are being talked about. With the ghosts comes cold, and that cold will cause the living to shiver."

"Do you believe that?" Kwai asked.

"Never before...never before the episode on the bridge. Now I've cause to wonder..."

His words faded off. Following a moment of silence, he asked: "The spirit that haunts the toll bridge...is it possible she was a suicide...perhaps she had jumped from that bridge to drown in the river?"

"I'm not certain," said Kwai. "What I feel as truth about this or that comes in bits and pieces. I can't give a detailed account in either case. But in this present situation, I know more now than when I had looked into it originally. In this case, perhaps the spirit will realize final peace. As for the curse: 'all those who saw the specter died within three days'... Don't concern yourself with that."

Kwai had not yet finished speaking when the keen ears of he and the samurai detected the soft hoof falls of an approaching horse. "The beast is riderless," stated Kwai.

"Yea," ventured Sung Ji as his left hand sheathed the half exposed blade he had begun to draw. He caught himself reaching for it the moment he was aware of the horse.

Kwai was already at the door by the time the samurai stood. With Ahn Sung Ji at his heels, he stepped outside onto the wooden porch. The horse, covered with sweat, was indeed without a rider as it ambled slowly toward the house. "I recognize that animal," proclaimed Kwai. "It's the blacksmith's. He has a small stable within the city."

"Perhaps the man was attacked by bandits," ventured the Korean, "or fell from the saddle."

"We'll return the horse to the city in the morning with first light," said Kwai. "It will be too difficult retracing the animal's tracks in this darkness."

"I could do it," Sung Ji proclaimed.

"Not necessary," said Kwai. "Something tells me this is no emergency."

The samurai conceded. He knew the seer just long enough to trust the man's sixth sense. If Kwai felt all was well, that was good enough for Sung Ji.

Later, while Kwai and Sung Ji slept comfortably, a weary Miyamoto was trekking toward the city walls. His drunken head was still spinning and his legs were shaky. He failed to find the horse that escaped him earlier at the toll bridge, so decided to return to the city and find a place outside the walls to sleep for the night. He could enter the metropolis without drawing attention to himself at sunrise when the gates reopened for the day. There would be many others then, coming and going. One stranger, more or less, would go unnoticed. Miyamoto felt the need to be careful he wasn't recognized by any of the Twin Dragon's patrons who were there the first night he had arrived. His activities since then remained furtive, and outside of the disturbance at the pub he did nothing else to gain attention. He believed returning to the city was his best choice in procuring another horse on which he could ride away in search of a more suitable haven. Being the aimless wanderer he was, he reasoned the best thing to do was leave the vicinity, especially after his encounter with the specter on the bridge. Albeit traveling would be much eaiser if he had a steed with which he could quickly put distance between himself and this troublesome place.

Miyamoto approached the city walls cautiously, constantly looking over his shoulders as he scurried along haphazardly in the darkness. Whatever that thing was that he either imagined or actually saw at the bridge horrified him still. He was fearful it would manifest itself again; perhaps even harm him. His stomach, spleen...his insides in general seemed to have been turned inside out. He wanted to sleep, but doubted he could. When he closed his eyes even to blink he saw the fierce countenance and flaming hair of the spirit he encountered earlier. "What was that?" he found himself mumbling aloud. "What kind of wreatched place have I brought myself to?"

But there was no one to answer, and perhaps that was best. Hearing the slighest sound caused the outlaw to jump, darting his frightened eyes this way and that, fearful of sighting that frightful apparition. He was becoming angry with himself; losing patience as the practical side of his wine soaked brain questioned whether or not the incident actually happened. 'Perhaps it was the wine', he told himself. Yet in spite of the drink, the experience was too real and still vivid in his memory. He struggled to recall the specter's face, before it changed...before it became twisted and demonic. That waif like face was familiar, but try as he may, he couldn't place it with a person, place or time. As he walked on, lost in confused thought, he discovered he had reached the city. He found a small grotto sheltered by trees, and a tiny stream, which was a welcomed sight. He was thirsty. After drinking, and splashing water on his face he found a place to rest until morning. Sitting, he placed his back against a tall tree. Now he needed fear attack from only three sides. Drawing his sword, he laid it across his outstretched legs, at the ready if needed. Against mortal men, he contemplated, the blade was quite effective, but against demons or spirits...he couldn't know. These troubled thoughts and more plagued him as he struggled for restful sleep.

At  Kwai's retreat, the new morning brought the smell of boiled kimchee cabbage to a surprised Sung Ji. Quickly rising from his palette he hurried from his room to discover breakfast had been prepared. There was steamed rice, kimchee turnips, boiled cabbage kimchee with tofu and bean sprouts. Not wishing to sit at the table uninvited, he stepped outside to look for his benefactor. He saw him a hundred feet from the house, talking to a young girl on horseback. A few minutes passed before she leaned down to embrace the Chinese, after which she rode away. Kwai watched until she was out of sight, then returned to the house. Before the Korean could speak, Kwai satisfied his curiousity: "She is 'Spring Flower'; my daughter. She brought things I needed for cooking. I spent a time in Korea when younger. It was there I met her mother and learned to make traditional cuisine. I thought I would treat you today with what little staples I have to remind you of your homeland."

"Your daughter?" said the samurai. "You never mentioned her..."

"Didn't I?" Kwai said. "Must I? There was no reason to. Must you know all there is to know about someone?"

The samurai was mortified. "Forgive me," he said.

Kwai mumbled, but nodded his head.

"She is 'e-buu-ta' (beautiful)."

"Watch yourself," warned Kwai. "She is grown, but still my treasure."

"I meant no disrespect."

"Well now," bellowed Kwai. "Are you going to stand and talk all morning? My daughter rode a long way to bring provisions, and helped me prepare the meal as a treat."

In spite of Kwai's ranting Sung Ji was happy. "If it tastes as good as it smells, it'll be more than a treat. It's been a long time since I've had kimchee."

"The rice isn't the sticky variety you became accustomed to in Korea," said Kwai, "but it serves the purpose. I've lettuce leaves to wrap it in. The cabbage, bean sprouts and turnips, like the rice and lettuce, are grown here. I bought the ingredients for kimchee from a merchant. When I prepare it with cabbage or turnips, I bury it in a glazed jar like your countrymen."

Sung Ji smiled broadly as he savored the aroma. Suddenly Kwai shouted; "Go clean that monkey face of yours then come to the table. We have to prepare the wagon for the trip and return the blacksmith's horse to the city!"

The Korean complied, rushing off as Kwai was still shouting: "Bahl-lee, bahl-lee (quickly, quickly), before I eat it all."

Following breakfast, Sung Ji, his stomach full, happily assisted Kwai preparing the wagon. As he secured the shaman's aged horse to the yoke he hummed an old Japanese song. Kwai listened intently for a moment before asking; "That melody... I've not heard it for a long time. But it sounds even better when played on the flute."

Sung Ji abruptly went quiet. He thought a moment before asking; "The phantom's flute perhaps?"

Kwai went quiet as the Korean studied his face. The shaman showed no emotion as he busied himself in preparation for their journey. Sung Ji sulked as he realized he was being ignored.

Suddenly Kwai looked at him; "Pouting again... That bottom lip of yours is going to interfere with your balance. You're apt to fall flat on your face."

Happy to have his attention, Sung Ji stated... "It's the melody the specter plays on her flute. I wondered if that was how you heard it..." The words trailed off. The samurai ceased speaking as he realized no one was really listening. Kwai was ignoring him again.

Aware of the samurai's failing patience, Kwai offered a morsel of information. "You're stubborn once something is on your mind. It's an old Japanese love song, quite common actually. You say you've heard the phantom performing that melody?"

Sung Ji wasn't certain, but believed Kwai knew more about the mystery of the bridge than he had revealed. "Yes...the same melody. But then, perhaps it's just my imagination."

Kwai didn't say another word. Keeping busy, he steadily ignored Sung Ji who went back to pouting like a disappointed child. Soon the wagon was loaded. Kwai went for the blacksmith's horse, after which the Korean climbed onto the wagon. Deciding to teach the Chinese a lesson for being so evasive, he planned to make him run after the wagon, at least a hundred yards or so. He took the reins, prompted the horse to move, and was disappointed to find it wouldn't take a single step. Resorting to verbal commands, he was still met with failure. Momentarily he heard Kwai laughing and turning, saw the shaman tethering the reins of the blacksmith's horse to the back of the wagon. Without a word Kwai came to the front, climbed up and motioned Sung Ji to slide to the opposite side of the seat. As he took the reins he spoke; "It's a beautiful day. A wonderful day to be alive."

The samurai eyed him scornfully as the shaman gave a gentle half-twist to the reins with his right hand. He shouted a word and the animal casually proceeded to pull the wagon. Then with a smile Kwai said; "My horse only responds to my touch and commands in Mandarin."

Although still sulking as the wagon moved, Sung Ji had to admit that it was indeed a beautiful day, with blue skies above peppered with majestic cotton-ball clouds reaching far into the heavens like floating mountains in the azure expanse of sky. The weather was mild, with a slight breeze. Old Kwai was right; it was a wonderful day to be alive, in spite of the shaman's sudden off-key rendition of the melody the samurai had been  humming earlier.

While they enjoyed the wagon ride and pleasant weather, in the city toward which they were heading Miyamoto scurried about in alleyways, looking for victims. He was hungry, needed money and a horse, and was trying his best to avoid the handfull of city dwellers he already managed to alienate. No matter where the outlaw happened to be, he had a knack for making enemies quickly. Today was to be no exception. He had just left an alley, walked a short distance on a crowded street and spied what appeared to be an easy target; an old, white-haired man accompanied by a young girl of perhaps age ten or twelve. Miyamoto followed them through the busy streets, down an alley dotted with small shops and street stalls. The outlaw watched as the elder removed a small pouch from his tunic from which he took coins to pay a woman for herbs and green onions. They moved on afterward, eventually down a less-crowded avenue, finally turning into another alley. Miyamoto immediately picked up his pace the moment they disappeared from sight. He slowed down as he approached the alley and stopped, gingerly peeking around the corner. What he saw stunned him into immobility, as the girl, shouting a war cry, leaped up and forward, twisting her body as she traveled several feet in midair, delivering a perfectly placed flying side kick to Miyamoto's forehead. The impact knocked him off his feet, slamming him hard, flat on his backside, onto the cobblestone street. Only half aware, he managed to rise to a seated position, but before he could collect his wits the pugnacious pixie, turning on the ball of one foot, struck him solidly on his aching forehead with a perfectly executed 360 degree spinning back kick. Afterward she struck a pose, standing on one leg, the other, knee bent, raised high in preparation for a third kick if necessary. Her hands were at the ready, one higher than the other, fists clenched to either block or strike. Her dark eyes were fixed intently on the prone outlaw, her long black hair moving hypnotically in the breeze as she held her balanced position. That was the last thing he saw, his still open eyes staring in bewildered amazement, just before he went unconscious.

The incident ended quickly, but already a small crowd gathered as the girl, who had been holding her defensive pose, began to relax. The elder bent down to have a closer look at her handiwork. As he inspected the damage a smile appeared on his face. Like a proud parent he exclaimed; "Good work, Moon! The bruise on his forehead is perfectly shaped. I would recognize that heel print of yours anywhere. And that spinning back wheel kick was an inspired knockout technique. You managed to do the most with the least bit of effort."

The girl's eyes sparkled as she beamed with pride and confidence. "You taught me well, Grandfather," she said as a matter of fact. "That man must have thought we were really stupid, stalking us like an old gray cat in the middle of the day..."

Her words seemed to trail off as Miyamoto began to stir. He made a bold effort and, pushing against the ground with both hands managed to slightly rise before, in a blur of sudden motion, the girl raised one leg high and with blinding speed brought her foot down powerfully on his head. The curvature of her heel impacted with the center of his skull just above the forehead. Miyamoto winced, his eyes crossed and he went rigid just before his body went into feverish spasms, then rigid once more before falling backward to the waiting ground.

"That's enough, Moon," said the old man. "He can't hurt anyone now."

"Sorry, grandfather," she stammered. "When he moved so did my leg...before I could think."

Her grandfather smiled... "As it should be. But the threat is past."

The old man checked to make certain Miyamoto was still alive, after which the carefree, lethal pair went about their business. Before leaving, the girl's grandfather placed a single coin in one of Miyamoto's palms; "Perhaps it is hunger that drives him to crime," he ventured. As the two went their way, the other denizens of the street followed suit. The show was over, the culprit was out cold, and no one really wanted to bother turning him in. There would be too many questions to answer and the working poor of the city were busy just trying to get through each day. They didn't have time to waste with local authorities that did little to help and often bullied them. As the crowd dispersed, a couple of sturdy men dragged the unconscious Miyamoto into an alley, threw a bamboo mat over him and then went about their business as if nothing had happened.

                                                                    CHAPTER  9

The journey to the city was  slow by Kwai's wagon, but Sung Ji had no complaints; the weather was good, and he wouldn't adequqtely enjoy it if rushing about. As they traveled the samurai asked Kwai about his daughter... "She is an accomplished swordswoman," he revealed. "After her apprenticeship she became an assistant to her Master; a well-known and highly respected 'Sifu' (Teacher), who is now past seventy. She needs the assistance of someone younger. My daughter offered. She loves her Sifu, and enjoys helping the younger girls develope their skills."

"Do you see your daughter often?"

"Not often enough. Our responsibilities keep us both busy." He paused, then as if recalling something from the past, said... "At her age now she is the image of her mother when I first met her..." 

Kwai became silent before he finished the sentence. Momentarily Sung Ji saw tears forming in his eyes. Out of respect the samurai became silent as well, deciding not to pry. Evidently the subject resurrected painful memories.

Before mid-day they reached the well fortified metropolis. As they passed beneath the main gateway, Sung Ji marveled at the height of the twin walls around the city. The first reached as high as two hundred feet and the second rose fifty feet above that, and were maintained by skilled workers who consistantly replaced stone or mortar when necessary. Even today, there were masonry artisans toiling on a major section of the main wall, just below one of the lofty towers. Workers were placing what appeared to be large diameter iron rods inside the fortified structure. As the wagon entered the area beyond the outer wall the Korean was intrigued by the design of the twin-fortifications. Just past the first wall was a wide area of perhaps four or five hundred yards, lined with barracks for the several hundred guardsmen that manned the front gates, portals and turrets. There were small shops and food stalls, which served the needs of the guards and their families. The space between the walls was as busy as the inner city, where denizens and visitors flocked, occupied with daily activities while groups of children scurried about, either helping parents and grandparents with work or busy at play. The second wall served as a double protective barrier for the inner city. If enemies managed to get past the outer wall, they would most likely never penetrate the second, which was higher and denser. Kwai pointed out the soldiers atop the second barrier... "They march twenty abreast," he said, "in groups of two hundred."

Sung Ji, impressed by their heavy steps and the metallic clanking of their armor, imagined that enemies would find it intimidating. Passing beyond the second wall was like going through a lengthy tunnel. Even in daylight, burning torch lamps, strategically placed and mounted along the corridor walls, were necessary so those who entered the inner city could see their way clearly through the dark passage.

The blacksmith's stables were located just beyond the second wall, in an area of the city where livestock was kept. The blacksmith, Lau Chi Ming, was pleased to have his horse returned. Yesterday he had tethered the animal to a post outside of the building in which he plied his trade, and knew he secured the reins effectively. He was certain the horse wouldn't wander off, and assumed it had been stolen. Kwai introduced the samurai and explained why he had come. Lau offered to loan Sung Ji a horse for the duration of his stay. The blacksmith, like many others in the city, was well acquainted with the fable of the haunted bridge. He too feared devils and phantoms... "I have no reason to use the bridge," he declared, "as my work keeps me here each day. All of my family members live either in the city or close by." He told Sung Ji what he knew of those who fell victim to the curse; "They were all thorns in the side of honest society. The world is a safer, more peaceful place with them gone." The Korean expressed his gratitude for the loan of the horse and for the information. Before leaving he asked Lau, concerning the horse... "What language does he respond to?"

Lau Ming stifled a chuckle as his eyes made contact with those of Kwai. "Unlike old Kwai's nag, my horse will respond to your prompting. Spoken commands are not necessary. He's well-trained, and needs only to see the shadow of the whip to move."

Following a few more moments of cordial conversation the samurai accompanied Kwai to one of the busy market streets to shop for food, herbs and other essentials.

Meanwhile, Miyamoto, having regained consciousness after his confrontation with the pugilistic pixie, Moon, stumbled out of the deserted alley rubbing his aching head. He stood motionless while trying to clear his vision, then stepped onto the crowded street, slowly making his way to that section of the city where livestock was kept. On his way he passed through one of the busy market sections. Through the crowd just a few hundred yards ahead he saw something that shocked him into temporary paralysis: Ahn Sung Ji. As quickly as the thought registered itself in his lethargic brain he darted into a small leather shop to avoid being seen. Fear gripped him as frenzied thoughts ran amok in his mind... "The Left Hand of God!" he exclaimed to himself. "Is the price on my head so great this madman follows me here?" he wondered aloud. "If he has come all this way surely he'll never give up."

So intent was he observing Sung Ji, he failed to notice those around him, especially those individuals within hearing distance. Once he began talking to himself, people backed away, keeping their distance while gazing at him in morbid fasination.

Miyamoto stealthily followed the Korean, watching as he and Kwai moved from one shop or stall to another. All the while the outlaw trying to decide whether to vacate the vicinity, or slay the samurai and then leave. As he struggled to gather the broken thread of his thoughts, it was the latter scheme that appealed most to Miyamoto. As far as the outlaw was concerned that was the best option; to eliminate the threat and end any future concern. "That Korean is as relentless as a famished tiger whose stubborn mind is locked onto it's prey," mumbled the fugitive. And yet, Miyamoto was just as relentless in his evil designs as Sung Ji was in his pursuit of Justice. 

The outlaw continued to follow the preoccupied pair until they entered the tunnel to exit the city. He couldn't help but notice the horse tethered to the shaman's wagon; the very same horse he had stolen just yesterday from the blacksmith.

As Sung Ji and Kwai passed through the tunnel the Korean slightly turned his head to look back. When he did so Kwai spoke: "You feel it too..."

Sung Ji looked at his friend... "I feel as if we're being stalked."

"I believe we were," said Kwai. "Your senses are keen."

"It helps one survive," replied the Korean. "But you gave no indication you suspected anything."

"Of course," said Kwai. "It is the same. The hunter employs stealth, and so should the hunted, thus taking the predator unawares. To be hunted but unafraid, then when facing an enemy eye-to-eye, one must be free of emotion, agitation or fear. Thus one's inner self is invisible, and the enemy perplexed. It is like bamboo shadows that move over stone steps, yet no dust is stirred. Like the moon reflected deep in the pool, yet the water shows no sign of penetration"

"Wah," said the samurai. "You speak like a Martial Art Master."

Kwai smiled, nodding his head as they neared the end of the tunnel.

Miyamoto meanwhile, returned to the various shops and stalls he had seen Sung Ji and Kwai visit earlier. Eventually he found an elderly shopkeeper who knew the shaman and where to find him; "He's a fortune-teller and doctor of medicine. If you fail to find him at his home," revealed the elder, "you may find him at the 'Temple of the Moon'. He is caretaker there until the monks return."

By the time Miyamoto had the information he wanted, the day was almost spent. Soon twilight came, followed by darkness. Still the Japanese bandit had not found a horse. Once the hour was late he reasoned he had no choice but to spend another night in the city, as the gates were closed and secured at sunset. If he attempted to leave now he would only bring unwarranted attention to himself. The outlaw didn't know if any of his mischief or misdeeds had been reported to local law enforcement. He wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible. In his chosen field, anonymity was paramount. Remaining in the city seemed not only the best option, but also the most logical based on his present mental and physical condition. 'It's just as well', Miyamoto told himself. He was weary form a sleepless night.

Still without money, he soon found an eatery, and after a healthy repast managed to leave without paying while the owner was busy with other customers. After putting a respectable distance between himself and the inn he returned to the darkened alleyways in search of a safe place to retire for the night.

                                                                CHAPTER 10

It seemed to Miyamoto as if he had been walking for hours through back city streets and deserted alleyways. "How difficult could it be", he impatiently muttered to himself, "to simply find a spot to lie down for the night?" Lost in thoughts like that, and too weary to pay attention, he eventually found himself in a dark, abandoned alley he felt was appropriate. But there was no time to rejoice. The relief he felt when finally finding what he considered was a good place for sleeping was suddenly eclipsed by the oppresive, ominous feeling that he was no longer alone. A sudden chill ran up the length of his spine as the hair at the base of his neck stood up as if electrified. Was it his imagination, he wondered, as his wide-staring eyes quickly locked onto a 'kage' (shadow) within the shadows; an almost imperceptible form, much darker than the darkness surrounding it...a vague, wraith-like image...an ebony shape human-like in form but not substance. The moment he was aware of it, the ka-ge moved suddenly with blinding speed. It leapt from the shadows within which it silently stood, sped along the wall to Miyamoto's left and abruptly disappeared. An instant later the frightened bandit sensed someone or something at his back. As he tried to turn his head to look he found himself unable to do so: he was paralyzed. Renewed terror gripped him as he detected the overpowering aroma of jasmine. Simultaneously he sensed the person or thing standing directly behind him was poised to strike. He was reminded of the traumatic, uncomfortable sensation inside his body that he had felt at the toll bridge when the demonic vision he saw there collided with him. He felt something very similar now in the left side of his back, although initially not as intense. The sickly, mildly painful sensation grew as it moved through his back and into his chest, causing a sudden sharp pain in his black heart. The pain, intensifying as the seconds passed, would have brought him to his knees at any other time, but now he could neither move nor even cry out. Attempting to scream, he discovered his vocal chords were as paralyzed as his body. He could, however, move his eyes. He strained them to look downward, where to his astonishment he saw a petite, transparent spectral hand emerging from his body. The phantom hand, open and palm down, was followed by an arm that was slowly turning as it protruded from the left side of his chest, precisely where his heart was located. The ghostly arm turned, slowly and hypnotically, until the hand was palm upward. Miyamoto watched in horror as the slender arm stopped emerging, the hand slowly formed a fist, paused a moment and then suddenly was pulled back through his body. The brisk action caused more pain than he thought he could bear, his stomach wretched, almost causing him to vomit. At that moment his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground. There was a sudden gust of wind that seemed to spiral around him accompanied by a blood red blur of motion that quickly stopped directly in front of him. His terrified eyes caught just a glimpse of the same spectral maiden, shrouded in a crimson mist, that he had seen on the bridge. He screamed uncontrollably at that moment as she raised an arm, fingers spread, the sharpened nails of which abruptly grew, extending to seven or eight inches. Miyamoto screamed again, as, with an evil grin the frightful maiden raised her arm higher in preparation to strike...

The sound of his own voice abruptly awakened him. He was covered in sweat, his body shaking. "A nightmare," he reasoned..."A-cu-mu (bad dream)." The thought brought him little comfort. He jerked his head this way and that, straining his eyes to pierce the darkness of the alley. There was nothing there; no mist, no phantom and no scent of jasmine. There was, however, an intense pain in his chest. Momentarily, as he struggled to calm himself, the pain subsided. Withdrawing his sword he sat up, his back against the wall of the building he had been lying next to. Afraid to close his eyes again, he planned to sit there until dawn. More than ever now, he wanted to find a horse, dispatch the samurai, and get as far away as he could from this bedeviled place.

Sung Ji awoke once again to the pleasing aroma of Kwai's early morning cooking. After another delicious breakfast, he was ready to set out for the Moon Temple to take care of some things that required attention there in gratitude to the shaman for his benevolence and hospitality. He went to his room to retrieve his old cloak and discovered it wasn't where he had left it the previous night, so returned to ask Kwai if he had seen it... "That old rag?" Kwai said. "I burned it early this morning."

"Mu-ah (What)!" Sung Ji exclaimed. "You burned it? Why on earth did you burn my cloak?"

"It didn't suit you," replied the shaman, without turning his eyes away from the pot he was cleaning.

"I can't believe you did that," moaned the samurai. "I've had that cloak for years."

"Obviously," said Kwai. "It had the smell of aged attached to it."

"How will I manage to keep warm on these cold nights?" Sung Ji stammered.

"I imagine you'll use your cloak," replied Kwai.

"You burned it!"

"Are you still thinking of the past?" Kwai said nonchalantly.

"What are you talking about?" Sung Ji moaned. "Honestly, at times you make me crazy."

"You shouldn't blame others for your confusion," said the Chinese. "And that attitude of yours...is that any way to treat someone who has given you a gift?"

"What?"  Sung Ji exclaimed.

"Did you notice the black cloak hanging on the hook outside your room? That's the gift I'm speaking of. Do you think I would get rid of your old one without replacing it with something better?"

The samurai, breathing heavily, slowly calmed down.

"You should learn to relax," said Kwai. "As a doctor I can tell you that you'll live longer."

Sung Ji took a deep breath. "Thank you," he said, "for the new cloak..." and then turned to walk away, shaking his head in dismay while Kwai, smiling contentedly, continued cleaning  as he hummed an old Chinese song.

Meanwhile in the city, Miyamoto, stressed and weary from nightmares and too little sleep, had been fruitlessly searching the streets and market areas for an unattended horse. Eventually he spied a young Chinese girl riding a white Arabian. The petite girl was dressed in colorful clothes and wore hand crafted leather boots. She appeared well fed and carefree... 'Obviously comes from a wealthy family', reasoned the outlaw. 'A spoiled, pampered little princess'... He decided to follow her, awaiting the first chance to take her horse and purse, the latter of which he imagined,  should be full of coins.

She led him on what he imagined to be a poorman's tour of the city, stopping from to look at merchant's wares, but not to buy. Eventually she entered that part of the inner city reserved for livestock. After letting her horse drink she allowed the animal to graze before venturing into a more populated area. It wasn't long before the outlaw, who had been stalking the girl with the patience of a vulture finally saw an opportunity to launch an assault. There was no one to be seen on the narrow, isolated street upon which she now rode. 'And so it follows', he reasoned, 'there is no one to witness'. He couldn't help but notice how attractive she was, with long strands of midnight hair that looked like black silk from a distance. She appeared to be either in her late teens or early twenties, which inspired other evil thoughts in his criminal mind. Puffed up with over-confidence, the lustful lout ran quickly to overtake the tiny rider. Rounding the horse on it's right side, he grabbed one of her slim wrists in an attempt to pull her down. The startled maiden, rather than reacting  fearfully, twisted her hand and wrist, going against his thumb, immediately breaking free from his grip. Abruptly sliding off one side of the saddle, keeping a firm hold on the reins with her left hand and grasping the left side stirrup with her right, she continued her slide, feet first, beneath her steed, striking Miyamoto with the bottom heels of her feet simultaneously in both shins. Crying out in pain he fell forward, slamming into the side of the horse as the girl slid back up with a pull on the stirrup. Pushing off the ground with her left leg she virtually sprang back on to the saddle and with her right foot struck Miyamoto in the center of the forehead with a perfectly executed sidekick, knocking him off his feet. He was close to losing consciousness as his body slammed, back first, onto the street. Dazed from the girl's well-placed kick, as he struggled to rise the precocious pixie nonchalantly rode away without once looking back, her horse prancing with high steps.The stunned outlaw wasn't certain, but thought he heard an audible 'Hymph!' come from the girl, as if in contempt. As the disbelieving outlaw sat watching her ride away, the horse flip up it's tail in a defiant manner, just before dropping a huge pile of dung onto the cobblestones.

Precariously standing, Miyamoto, recalling the earlier incident with the girl Moon and her grandfather, muttered to himself... "Kicked me in the same place as that other lethal little vixen. What is it with the girls in this cursed city?" he yelled as the rider disappeared around a curve. He had no time to reason it out, as he was at that precise moment startled back to reality by a man shouting... "There he is! That's him...he's the one. I saw him attack the girl!" Turning to look, Miyamoto heard another man shout... "Get him!"

The weary desperado wasn't certain how many pursued him, as he lacked the time or wits to count numbers. There were more than five, which was five more than he wanted to have to deal with at the moment. When, and from where they came had no bearing on the fact that he had to move quickly. Without a second thought he found himself doing the one thing he did often, and at which he had become an expert; running away from an angry mob. 'I'm getting too old for this', he thought as he forced his trembling legs into action.

He wasn't certain how long he had been running when, as luck would have it, the bedraggled outlaw rounded a building and his eyes beheld something he could only have dreamed of at that moment. Just a hundred yards away he spied a man tethering a horse to a post outside a public building. The lone rider entered the building just before a winded and panting Miyamoto arrived at the post. Loosing the reins, he jumped onto the animal's back the moment his pursuers rounded the corner. Prodding the horse with his heels, he almost fell from its back as it abruptly lurched and galloped off in a cloud of dust. The angry curses and shouts of those in pursuit died off in the distance as Miyamoto put as much space as he could between himself and the angry city dwellers.

                                                                     CHAPTER 11

Sung Ji left the Temple of the Moon long before Miyamoto managed to fumble his way there. The Japanese had gotten directions from a shopkeeper in Chiang's city, but because of a lack of a proper education was unable to memorize information adequately. Of course, he had taken three kicks to the head in the last forty-eight hours, and due to nightmares brought on my a guilty conscience he had very little sleep in that time. Either of those circumstances would have idled the memory of even the best of educated men, or so he reasoned. Miyamoto was good at blaming others for his problems, which would explain why he had, up to now, lived a life of regret. In his mind, bad results were not the consequences of his actions, but were bad luck or signs that Heaven conspired against him. Even now, considering all that happened in the last three days, any sensible man would have changed his wicked ways at best, and left the region before finding further trouble. But Miyamoto could only focus on evil acts and personal revenge. Rather than quit while he was ahead, he could only plot and connive, his mind primarily set on the elimination of Sung Ji.

Presently, the outlaw approached the Torii (archway) beneath which all who entered the temple grounds must pass. Those who did so were to leave the cares and woes of the secular world behind as they entered a place designed for spiritual development. The very act of passing beneath and beyond the torii was symbolic of one undergoing a spiritual cleansing. That concept was lost on individuals like Miyamoto, who had no intention of  making changes in either attitude or behavior. The gate beyond the torii was secured, although easy enough to break through. Miyamoto decided to leave it untouched and climb a wall in order to get an idea of the layout of the main temple, buildings and grounds. He planned to await the return of the Korean and hopefully catch him alone and unaware, rather than confront him directly or while he was in the company of others. He didn't know why, but he sensed something foreboding about Kwai. The old Chinese had an intense aura about him that intimidated Miyamoto and he hoped to avoid direct confrontation with him.

Judging from tracks on the earth between the torii and the gate, Miyamoto reasoned one horseman had been there earlier; "The Left Hand of God'," he sneered. "Most likely riding that horse I lost at the bridge..." Inside the gates, the disappointed assassin found few places to hide. There were trees, a groove of mature bamboo, the graveyard and smaller buildings. The area around the main building was open. The graveyard seemed the best place to hide, but when he thought about it, he realized it was actually the last place he wanted to be after dark. Yet the thought of Sung Ji meeting 'death' in a place of death caused the outlaw to chuckle. After much consideration he decided to choose a hiding place among the large rocks and trees outside the protective walls of the Moon Temple. He was certain he could find an adequate position from which he could view the front gate. It would be dark soon and his stolen horse needed water. The well would provide that, and the fruit and nuts Miyamoto had spied at the foot of the altar inside the main hall of the Temple would fill his own belly. He had no qualms about taking food left for the ghosts of ancestors. Like lawless others of his kind who lacked personal honor and integrity, nothing was sacred. 

Some distance away, at Kwai's retreat, Sung Ji lowered his chopsticks, unable to eat another bite. Kwai smiled with content; "Did you like that?" he asked teasingly. The Korean smiled in response, then both men laughed. "For one who claimed he wasn't hungry you ate everything placed before you," stated Kwai.

"I was trying to be polite... It was 'ma-shi sei-yo' (delicious)...a good meal," stammered the Korean, "and I didn't want to insult the cook by eating just a little. Now," he said as he placed a hand on his stomach, "Na-nin pae-bul li-yo' (I am full)."

That being said, both of them laughed. Finally Kwai became serious; "It's not necessary for you to return to the Moon Temple tonight. You should rest here. Tomorrow I'll accompany you with the wagon. That part of the portico you plan to repair requires wooden planks that would be best carried on the wagon and not dragged on a pallet behind the blacksmith's horse."

"That's true," said Sung Ji, "but there are other things that could be done tonight. I could complete those tasks left unfinished earlier, sleep at the Temple, and repair the portico tomorrow when you bring the materials."

"Your goodness is only outweighed by your stubbornness," said the shaman. "Very well. I prefer not to waste time bantering with such a hard head. But I do like your company. Isolation has its merits, but with it comes negative things. At times I feel 'sha-mi-shi-to' (lonley)," he said in Japanese.

Sung Ji knew quite well what his friend was talking about. The life he led himself was likewise fraught with loneliness. It wasn't exactly the path he had chosen, but like so many others in the stream of 'life', he found himself carried along by the current in spite of what his plans might have been. Destiny and Fate had intervened, and were things over which, for the most part, one had little or no control.

Presently he helped Kwai load the wagon in preparation for the morning. He then prepared the blacksmith's horse for riding, bid farewell to Kwai and set out for the Moon Temple. It was a good night for a ride, the weather pleasant, but the samurai didn't get far, perhaps two kilometers, before he encountered a major problem; the horse stopped moving. Try as he may, he couldn't urge the animal to take another step. Agitated and frightened, the horse balked when prodded, neighing and snorting argumentatively. Sung Ji ceased forcing, dismounted and while petting the horse in an attempt to calm him, turned to look in the direction of the trees at which the animal was staring apprehensively. The night wind stirred the leaves audibly, reminding the Korean of the sound of the waves of the sea gently meeting the sand of the beach. Momentarily he noted the chirping of the crickets had ceased, and he detected the smell of jasmine, followed by the subtle, lilting sounds of a flute. The sound at first seemed to be far off, but slowly increased in volume as if it was actually near. That, and the sweet smell of jasmine, appeared to emanate from no place in particular. First looking about, he turned his gaze once more in the direction of the trees; when he strained his eyes, for just a moment he thought he saw a blue-hued mist in the brush, within which was what appeared to be a human shape. Staring intensely, he saw more clearly; the slender 'shape' appeared to be that of a young maiden. She was standing there in the shadows, just watching. Blinking two or three times and then rubbing his eyes, the samurai looked again but could see only shadows, the trees and an occasional firefly...the girl was no longer there.

"I am certain I saw someone, or something..." he spoke aloud to no one. "I must be tired," he said, this time speaking to the horse. "And you too." Sung Ji sighed. A moment passed, then, still speaking to the horse, he declared; "Well now, as you refuse to go any further, perhaps the only thing to do is return to Kwai's place. You can bring me to the Moon Temple in the light of day when there are no shadows to alarm you. Either that or I'll tie you to Kwai's wagon and you can follow behind."

Having made that decision, Sung Ji climbed back onto the saddle and proceeded in the opposite direction, away from the secluded Temple. The horse offered no resistance, trotting along happily, as if it knew it was returning to the shaman's place.

Meanwhile, in the rocks adjacent to the Temple of the Moon, the skulking Miyamoto, having found a sufficient position from which he could view the main gate, had been sleeping lightly when some intense sense of dread abruptly awakened him. He opened his bleary eyes only to find the face of the phantom less than an inch from his nose, her red eyes burning into his. Then she spoke; "What is it?" she asked... "You look as though you're staring at a dead girl." Before he could register a single thought or utter a sound the girl's right hand sped forward astonishingly fast and gripped his throat. Gasping a half-hearted scream, he sat bolt upright, realizing that it was just another nightmare... 'A-cu-mu' (bad dream), he told himself. Shivering suddenly as if his spine was struck by an electric jolt, he shook his sleepy head, then rose up to stretch his limbs. As he did so his ears picked up a rustling sound in the nearby bushes; 'That wasn't just the wind', he warned himself. Straining his eyes to see as he raised the sword he had been holding in his right hand defensively, he crept toward the brush from where the sound emanated. When close, he jumped back in fright as a night owl suddenly sprang from the foliage in frenzied fright.

Muttering curses, Miyamoto lowered the weapon and turning to go back to his resting spot, noticed a gently swirling, crimson vapor at his feet. As he raised his doubtful eyes from the ground he was shocked to find the specter standing, or floating before him, her blood red eyes like flames, glaring at him maliciously. Once again, he was paralyzed, unable to move, cry out or flee; he could only watch in terror as the red mist-shrouded phantom raised one slender hand. Her crimson eyes glowed and an evil grin appeared on her face as she displayed that tiny hand, the little finger raised. Miyamoto trembled internally as he watched the nail of that finger grow in length, perhaps six or seven inches, the grim sight recalling to his terrified mind one of his more recent nightmares. With a malicious gleam in her blazing eyes the specter stretched her hand forward, placing the nail of her finger against the left side of the outlaw's neck. Slowing dragging the nail across his throat, just above the point from which her locket hung, her evil grin became a malicious smile as the invisible path she inscribed on his skin slowly became a thin red line just before blood began to seep and then spray forth like a fine mist. He somehow found a way to activate paralyzed vocal chords, issuing a guttural, frightened scream as the ghost vision grabbed the hair on either side of his head and violently twisted...

Once again the sound the sound of his own voice awakened him. Drenched in sweat, Miyamoto scrambled to his feet, grasping his neck with both hands. It was wet, but not with blood...only the cold sweat that accompanied extreme fright. He was still trembling, and although preoccupied by troubled thoughts could have sworn that, just for a moment, his distended nostrils detected the smell of jasmine. "A dream within a dream...within a dream," he muttered. "Am I cursed?" he screamed aloud, eyes raised and staring skyward. The only reply was the relentless sound of the wind in the trees. Standing there dejected and exhausted, the weary outlaw knew he wouldn't get any rest this night. Indeed, he feared sleep; it was no longer a refuge because of the nightmares he imagined lay in wait for him. He wished time would pass more quickly, that the samurai would appear and he could slay him and be on his way, far away from here. 'Time passes slowly', his tired mind pondered, 'in this cruel reality'.

Resigned to his present fate, he began to pace back and forth, sword in hand and at the ready. Perhaps, he told himself, if he paced long enough he could fall into a deep sleep where nightmares couldn't touch him. "I'll sleep with one eye open," he swore to the darkness around him, "then I dare those dreams to come..."

                                                                         CHAPTER 12

Exhaustion finally took its toll on a bedraggled Miyamoto. He slept through the dawn of the new day and the eventual arrival of Kwai's wagon at the Moon Temple. Totally spent from having hardly rested in the last seventy-two hours, his usually keen sense of hearing failed to detect either the creaking wheels of the wagon, or the hoof falls of the horses. On the wagon, Sung Ji sat beside the shaman, while the blacksmith's horse followed along, tethered by its leather reins.

While the sun shone the productive pair toiled at their work, as a weary Miyamoto slept on, blundering through one troubled dream after another, completely oblivious to the wide-awake world around him. He was still asleep at twilight, when Asako appeared from that empty space between the netherworld and this one, revealing her spectral form to Miyamoto's frightened horse. The animal's sixth sense in perfect working order, its ears perked up before its distended eyes locked onto the materializing shape of the specter. Even if it had not seen the phantom, the horse would have known she was near. Animals have a special sense when it comes to danger and to things uncanny or otherworldly. Fighting and pulling against its reins the agitated horse managed to break loose and quickly depart in a cloud of dust while the fatigued outlaw remained unconscious. He remained so until evening, when awakened by the creaking sound of Kwai's wagon as it passed beneath the Torii before the Temple gate. The Chinese mystic was departing for home, while the samurai chose to stay behind to complete small tasks. Peeping from his hiding place, Miyamoto watched as Sung Ji, standing at the gate, bid farewell to his mentor. "Safe journey," said the samurai.

Kwai turned and nodded, then cried back; "Don't toil all night," he advised. "Get some rest. We'll finish the work tomorrow, then you can return to your quest."

"Yea," Sung Ji cried out. "Chiang's patience will not endure forever."

Kwai chuckled as he turned his gaze back to the road, raising his right arm and waving his hand as the wagon disappeared around the bend. Once he was out of sight, Sung Ji closed and secured the Temple gates.

"Perfect," hissed the outlaw. "With that old magician out of the way I can focus solely on the samurai." Deciding to wait until the Korean was asleep, Miyamoto turned his attention to where he had tied the stolen horse, only to discover the animal no longer there. The leather pouch he had secured to the saddle was lying beneath the tree to which he had tied the reins. 'Obviously dislodged when the horse struggled to free itself', thought the outlaw. The bag held few items, but it did contain a double-edged dagger with a fourteen-inch blade. He planned to use it on Sung Ji once the samurai was asleep. The bandit favored the weapon and had carried it for three years, ever since he took it from the body of Asako's father after he and his men killed the woodsman. Miyamoto had never taken a life with that blade, but always wanted to. Picking up the pouch, he checked for the dagger, pleased to find it was still there. Placing it in his 'obi' (belt), he turned his attention once more to where the horse had been tied. He could just barely make out the animal's tracks in the failing light and could see, judging from the deep impression of the hoof prints on the ground, that his first judgement was correct; the beast had struggled hard to free itself. There was no use bewailing what was lost, but the outlaw did: "Wonderful!" he complained sarcasticly. "I've slept away the daylight hours and lost another horse as well. What next," he wondered aloud as he silently hoped the samurai had brought the blacksmith's horse with him. That would be fitting reasoned the outlaw. After all, he had stolen the horse to begin with, and although it most likely would still refuse to cross the toll bridge the conniving killer could care less. He planned to go further into China, not back along the way he had come. If Sung Ji had the horse, the outlaw would take it after killing the samurai. It was a perfect plan, thought Miyamoto as his shoulders and upper body trembled and shook with his evil, mischievous laughter.

His reverie and plotting was suddenly interrupted by the sound of thunder. Raising his eyes, he beheld a clear sky overhead, but in the distance it was threatening. Dark clouds on the horizon gave a hint of what was to come as the thunder sounded once again. Momentarily distracted by the heavy bass resonance he found himself thinking of another time and place; 'was it two or three years ago...' he wondered. The thunder, and the fresh, clean smell of the coming rain stirred his memory; it was a night much like this one he recalled, back in his homeland. He and two followers were in retreat, running from that cursed samurai. Only he escaped the Korean's blade that night, but this time it would be different. His right hand reached for and caressed the handle of the double-sided dagger he planned to stab Sung Ji with as he slept. 'A fitting end', reasoned Miyamoto, 'and a good night for revenge'. It is a pity that he had no thoughts of Asako Chan's father, victimized by he and his men. Nor did he have any consideration for the girl they attempted to molest. He only had selfish thoughts of revenge. But little did he know that there was another who had thoughts of retribution. As the treacherous culprit schemed, Asako, in her dark nether space, was stirred to an emotional apex. Sensing and 'knowing' his evil intentions, she was both agitated and inclined to prevent him from carrying them out. Indeed, if she intervened she would thwart his plans of escape, prevent him from ever hurting another living being, and also prevent Sung Ji's untimely demise. She wanted to warn the samurai; the problem was that, as a novice ghost she had no audible voice as yet, and little knowledge of how to communicate with the living. If she allowed herself to be seen, the reaction of others was always fright, especially when she materialized suddenly out of thin air.

Twilight was quickly followed by darkness. All the while, the devious Miyamoto intently observed the Moon Temple. In spite of the Korean being inside the main building and out of sight, it was obvious to the outlaw where he was. Candlelight shone dimly through the rice paper of one of the windows that faced Miyamoto's direction. The candle burned for what seemed an eternity to the outlaw, but eventually his predatory patience was rewarded. Soon the light was extinguished, but still Miyamoto waited. He wanted his prey to be in deep sleep when he crept into the Temple. Assassination, the outlaw learned through experience, was most effective if the victim was completely unaware.

Thunder sounded again, not so distant this time as the storm steadily approached. Lightning flashed on the horizon as the moon and stars, far above in the night sky, were slowly hidden by the dark billowing clouds that rushed across the heavens. Driven by the increasing winds, they would perhaps block Heaven's view thought Miyamoto, as he prepared to carry out his deadly plan. He welcomed the storm; the thunder and rain would disguise his furtive movements and any noise he may make in the process. It would be difficult to distinguish the sounds of his creeping from those of the storm or the wind in the trees.

Finally deciding to make his move, the outlaw imagined how simple it was going to be to slay his nemesis, and there would be no one to know; or so he believed. Not knowing who she was, and blaming his experience on the toll bridge on too much drink and the rest on nightmares and lack of sleep, Miyamoto couldn't imagine a wandering, unhappy ghost thwarting his plans. In his lifetime he had killed many men, and assaulted and murdered many women. Yet he was never visited by ghosts, nor haunted by vengeful spirits. He would never assume that as he planned his evil deed, Asako was searching for a way to prevent it and alert Sung Ji.

Miyamoto left his hiding place, scaled the temple wall and noiselessly approached the building where Sung Ji slept. The samurai was peacefully dreaming of floating on clouds, carried along on the musical notes of an old Japanese melody. Stirred to wakefulness, the dream became vapor, yet he still could hear the lilting sound of a flute drifting into the room. Emanating from outside, it was the same haunting tune he heard on the bridge, accompanied by the smell of jasmine. The melodious sound was coming from the front courtyard, in unison with the rustling of the wind-stirred bamboo just outside the window of his room. Sung Ji, animated by curiosity, rose from the makeshift palette and made his way through the main hall to the corridor that led to the front door. Miyamoto, meanwhile, was creeping along the outer wall of the Temple, stealthily making his way to the steps of the front portico. The wind had been gradually increasing, and the fresh smell of the coming rain permeated the air. The outlaw didn't hear the pleasing melody of Asako's flute, nor did he detect the sweet smell of jasmine. Such pleasures were not meant for lawless cutthroats like him. In the past, when he could smell jasmine, it was an overpowering, pungent odor that only sickened him.

Inside the Temple, as Sung Ji reached the door and began to unlatch the lock that secured it, the sounds alerted Miyamoto who abruptly concealed himself in the shrubs and shadows to one side of the portico. 'Good enough', he thought, his back pressed against the stonewall of the building. Whether the samurai was asleep or awake, either way the outlaw planned to put the woodsman's dagger between his shoulder blades. As sweat beads of apprehension formed on his forehead, the skulking outlaw slowly became aware of the overpowering odor of jasmine... "In this wind?" he whispered to himself. There was no time for reflection as the Temple door began to swing outward, ancient hinges creaking as if in audible resistance to being forced into reluctant movement. As Sung Ji emerged, Miyamoto silently cursed; in his right hand he clenched the dagger, while his assassin's sword was yet in the scabbard secured to his obi. He didn't expect to face a wide-awake samurai, and now it was too late to withdraw the sword, as the sound would most certainly alert the 'Left Hand of God'.

The night wind caressed the Korean's face as he stood just outside the doorway. The moon, hidden by clouds, offered no light in the darkness. Thunder sounded again as Sung Ji, looking for the flute player, stepped onto the portico, slowly turning his back to Miyamoto's hiding place. As the assassin took a stealthy step forward, the sudden increased volume of the flute resonated from directly behind Sung Ji. Turning abruptly he saw the outlaw emerging from the shadows, dagger in hand. Miyamoto quickly leaped toward his prey. Sung Ji sidestepped the attack, drawing his own dagger as the outlaw sprang past him, only to land spread-eagled and face down on the portico. Grasping the hilt of his sword as he rose, Miyamoto pulled the weapon from its scabbard, and turning, cut an arc waist high in the air, driving the samurai back. Sung Ji out-maneuvered two or three more strikes, which were either ill-timed or clumsy. Obviously the Japanese wasn't left-handed, thought Sung Ji as the assassin tried to strike with one awkward slice or thrust after another. The fierceness and suddenness of the assaults however, worked to Miyamoto's advantage. Sung Ji was driven to the end of the portico, one foot going off the landing, causing him to lose balance. As he fell backward Miyamoto's sword's connected twice, cutting a wide gap across the Korean's forehead, and another slash to his upper right arm. Still, as he fell Sung Ji managed to deliever a thrusting front kick to the outlaw's stomach, forcing him backward. The kick lacked power, as the Korean was falling back and away from his target as he kicked, but it was sufficient, based on Miyamoto's forward rush, to knock the assassin back, momentarily keeping him at bay.

Sung Ji struck the ground, rolled and twisted, managing to spring to his feet just as Miyamoto renewed his attack. Avoiding the outlaw with a strategic step to one side Sung Ji parried a sword strike with his dagger, then executed a lightning-quick slash across Miyamoto's forehead. Almost blinded by the blood from his own head wound, Sung Ji wiped his eyes just as thunder rumbled in the clouds above and a torrent of rain began to fall on the field of battle.

Wounded now, and angered by his plans gone awry, Miyamoto wiped blood from his left eye as Sung Ji stood his ground, regretful that his sword was inside the Moon Temple. Regardless, he was a seasoned warrior and had dealt with assailants before, often with no weapon at all. But Miyamoto was also a skilled fighter, and treacherous. Sung Ji knew he was a man to be reckoned with. As he awaited the outlaw's next move, his mind drifted for a moment, back three years in time. Like Miyamoto earlier, the rain reminded him of another time and place: the night in the forest atop the mountain the villager's called 'Heaven's Stepstool'; he was so close to apprehending the devious outlaw then. He was reminded not only of the treachery of Miyamoto and his followers, but also of the cowardice of the assassin, who had made his escape that night during a sudden downpour.

The Korean's reverie was interrupted abruptly as the outlaw, screaming loudly and swinging his sword wildly, launched another straight-line attack, thrusting with his dagger as Sung Ji parried the sword's long blade with his own short bladed weapon. As he avoided the sword Miyamoto managed to stab him superficially in his right side with the dagger. Sung Ji quickly executed a left leg outside crescent kick to the outlaw's left hand, knocking the sword from his grip. A right roundhouse kick to Miyamoto's other hand dislodged the dagger. With the same leg, the Korean drew back, coiled the leg in preparation and snapped a powerful sidekick into Miyamoto's body. The impact of the kick fractured three ribs and knocked the grunting outlaw off his feet. As Sung Ji approached him, Miyamoto grabbed a handfull of mud, slinging it in the samurai's face. Blinded for a fraction of a second, he was caught off guard as the outlaw rose up, a large bamboo stick in his hands. Swinging wildly he struck the Korean solidly in the head, knocking him off his feet. While the samurai was dazed, Miyamoto dropped the bamboo and, grabbing a large rock in his left hand charged forward. Sung Ji rolled to one side, screaming in pain as the rock missed his head but crashed down onto his right hand, pulverizing the bones. He executed another left leg outside crescent kick while still on his back, striking Miyamoto's left hand and knocking the rock free. A second forward heel kick struck the outlaw's right knee, driving him back in pain as Sung Ji rose to his feet and with a well-placed jumping side kick knocked Miyamoto flat on his back. Wincing in pain and gasping for breath, the samurai stood his ground, still holding the dagger in his left hand, awaiting his attacker's next move.

Both men were weary and wounded, their own blood and the rain interferring with their vision. Miyamoto made an effort to stand, then suddenly dropped to one knee, apparently on the verge of giving up. Sung Ji eyed him suspiciously, uncertain if the tricky outlaw was indeed worn down or just playing at defeat. The Japanese finally dropped to both knees and bending forward, head bowed, placed both hands on the saturated ground to support his weight. Neither man spoke. After what seemed an eternity Sung Ji bowed his head, still gasping for air after an intense struggle. Momentarily he turned and stepped up onto the portico, planning to get leather straps to secure the assassin's wrists. At that precise moment, Miyamoto, who had been pretending defeat, reached for the sword he had dropped earlier, rose quietly and crept forward, the blade raised overhead. The moment the outlaw placed a foot on the portico, his attention was suddenly drawn to the red-hued mist that abruptly materialized on the opposite side of the landing. The samurai was oblivious as Miyamoto's terrified , distended eyes were affixed on the ghostly figure whose angelic face morphed into a demonic visage, red eyes blazing. A hellish scream issued forth from the specters fanged mouth, frightening and causing the killer to lose balance. His foot slipped on the wet, rain-drenched beams and falling backward, he landed with a dull thud, alerting Sung Ji. The samurai turned quickly, shocked to see him lying at the base of the landing, his back arched upward, face to the sky, the sword still clenched in his hands. Abruptly the outlaw's body quivered and shook, then went limp as he lay motionless, his wide-staring eyes no longer able to see. Approaching cautiously, Sung Ji discovered the assassin had fallen backward onto the very dagger he intended to kill him with; the one stolen from Asako's father.

The rain stopped at that moment, clouds speedily drifting away and the moon's light illuminating the Temple grounds. A bright glint caught Sung Ji's attention: it was the silver locket around Miyamoto's neck. Reaching down, he undid the clasp and removed the necklace. Grasping it in his broken hand, he opened the locket with his left. Inside he discovered a small, hand-painted portrait of a beautiful woman. Standing motionless in the moon's light, he wondered about the face in the locket, and the locket itself, somehow knowing it didn't belong to Miyamoto. As he gazed at the locket it suddenly triggered something buried deep in memory. He recalled the burial of the woodsman and his daughter. He overheard two women at the gravesite talking about how it was a shame that, although a man from the village discovered the girl's body, no one was able to find the silver locket she wore since her mother's death. She always treasured it as it was a gift from her father and contained a portrait of her mother he painted after the woman's death. "Asako Chan was never seen without the locket..." one of the women had remarked.

"Could it be that one..." he wondered, as he stood there alone in the dark. Perhaps, he reflected, it was connected to the haunting; a major piece of the puzzle. Sung Ji was eager to sort it out, but his eagerness to solve the riddle was outweighed by the fatigue quickly taking its toll. That, and the intensifying pain from his wounds brought him back from his reflection. More than anything else, at the moment he needed rest. He looked once more at the face in the locket, just before painfully limping toward the front entrance of the Temple.

                                                              CHAPTER 13 

A battle-weary Sung Ji placed a hand on the huge iron knob that turned and released the latch securing the heavy cedar inner door of the Moon Temple. Once undone, he gingerly pulled the intricately carved wooden structure open. Ancient hinges creaked loudly as he gingerly pulled  the inttricately carved wooden structure outward. Stepping through the entryway and into the shelter of the dark corridor beyond, the fatigued Korean breathed a heavy sigh of exhaustion. Outside the wind gently stirred the slender, rain-soaked leaves of the bamboo, simultaneously shaking off beads of water and creating an intermittent rustling, as if nature was whispering in contrast to the solitary silence that reigned eternal in the great hallway. Without warning, like the sudden slamming of a heavy door, the dormant darkness inside the corridor appeared to come alive as the air in the musty passageway abruptly turned colder. Sung Ji wasn't certain if that was the first indication something wasn't right, or if it was the sudden physic impression he was no longer alone. He sensed a presence in the blackness, moments before the light from the rising moon began to lazily filter in through the rice paper of the windowpanes that lined the outer wall. The iridescent illuminated a languid, swirling mist a short distance away within the deep shadows. Oblivious to what was happening inside the dreary corridor, amidst the bamboo, the forlorn wind moaned, resounding like the mournful, doomed cry of a lost soul. A cold chill ran up his spine; "The phantasm..." mused the warrior in a hushed whisper, as he recalled the words of the toll man at the haunted bridge; "All who saw her delicate, transparent form died within three days time..." 

Frozen in mid stride, his left hand instinctively reached for the polished hilt of his jade dagger. He forgot his pain and weariness as he watched with a tense fasination as the gossamer mist, spiraling slowly, assumed the supple shape of a young maiden. The darkness of the hallway lessened, illuminated further by the spectral light emanated by the phantom. Unable to move, he found himself transfixed by the girl's beauty. She had the docile, innocent face of an earthbound angel, he imagined. There was something else; the ghostly image stirred a painful remembrance deep within his subconscious. His thoughts drifted back in time as he recalled his previous encounter with Miyamoto, who had escaped his sword in a sudden downpour almost three years ago. It was in Tsukimi: Sung Ji had returned to the village that night in the pouring rain, bringing news of Toshima's death. The following day he heard of the discovery of the woodsman's daughter at the base of the cliff. Before cremation, he  saw the her face; beautiful, angelic, with eyes of innocence that had barely begun to view the world into which she was born. Those eyes were perhaps her most outstanding feature, as they were a deep blue, not brown or black which was common for her race. That, and her innocent, childlike face was something he promised himself he would never forget. He made a vow  then, to find Miyamoto and bring him to Justice; or bring Justice to him. Recalling the dreadful moment he viewed the girl's body, he was now aware of the phantom's identity; "Asako..." he intoned. As his gazed at her sad, deep blue eyes and melancholy stare, he was almost overwhelmed by the heavy pall of tragedy that permeated the gloom of the hallway. Slowly becoming aware of the wafting, sweet scent of jasmine, he noticed something contradictory in the girl's appearance; she was clothed in white. 'Not blue...' he thought. "Are you the same somber girl?" he wondered aloud in a whisper... "The one atop the bridge...the woodsman's daughter?"

As if in reply, the subtle hint of a smile brightened the angelic face of the earthbound spirit. Slowly, she raised an arm, opened her slender hand and with one petite finger moving as if in a dream she began to invisibly inscribe the Japanese character for 'recognition' in the air.

His attention turned once more to the girl's face. Her gaze had lowered from his eyes to his wounds, then to the locket he held in his broken hand. In spite of the distance between them and the darkness of the corridor, he perceived a single, crystal tear forming at the corner of one eye. Although speechless, as that lone tear ran down her cheek Sung Ji found himself wondering... 'Can a Ghost shed tears'?

The smile on her face broadened and she nodded in agreement, as if having perceived his thoughts. Simultaneously an air of sublime Peace began to displace the oppressive air of sadness and despair he sensed just moments before. It was as if, with the untimely demise of Miyamoto, there was suddenly closure for Asako and perhaps for him. He had no way of knowing she lost her desire of revenge, and found little solace in the outlaw's death. Neither she nor Sung Ji sought revenge, but rather retribution and Justice in a world where there was very little Justice. The problem with Justice was that it required the death of those who took life, for the only way to stop one who chooses to kill is to eliminate that individual. Once done, they could no longer harm others.

In spite of standing so close to the specter, Sung Ji was calm, at peace, overcome by a quiet acceptance of the inevitable. Just moments ago he had expected to meet his fate at the hands of the treacherous Miyamoto. It was three ago that he saw the girl on the bridge. If what the toll man had said was true, the curse should take him this night. Now, he pondered, perhaps his end would come directly from the phantom...but something deep within him told him that wasn't to be. Unable to move he stood there in silence, watching the girl as she closed her eyes, as if in contemplation. The Peace he felt in the air slowly embraced him, wrapping his tired, wounded body in a soothing invisible blanket, gradually removing pain from battered muscles and wounds. Even the bones of his broken hand no longer ached. The stab wound in his right side was closing, the bleeding stopping there and at the slashes on his forehead, legs and right arm. It was as if a month of healing was taking place in seconds. He looked at Asako. Her eyes still closed, her sweet smile touched his heart and calmed his spirit. It was she, he realized; the healing and comfort came from her; something only a 'cheon-yeo gwi-sen' (virgin ghost) could do. At that moment, rather than bringing retribution to the deserving she was bringing 'life', renewal, to an injured warrior; an otherworldly, invisible medicinal balm that restored the him to the healthy physical condition he was in before the confrontation with Miyamoto. Asako Chan died before she could bring new life into this world but Heaven empowered her to heal the samurai's wounds. Within moments all physical pain and fatigue was gone. He was revitalized, but still he carried a spiritual burden; he still felt guilt for not having confronting Miyamoto and his cohorts when they were in Tsukimi. If he had, they would never have been able to murder Toshima or his daughter.

The moment his conscious mind conceived those thoughts, Asako was no longer in the center of the corridor; she was suddenly beside him, quicker than the speed of thought. Startled, his back went rigid for an instant. Her face just inches from his, her heard raised and her eyes looking into his. She smiled as she reached out a hand to touch his right hand. As he looked into those deep blue eyes, the one distinguishing feature those who knew her in life marveled at, he was surprised he could feel her soft, gentle touch. At that moment she didn't appear transparent; a ghostly skill she somehow managed to learn, he reasoned. He realized the touch of her hand was her way of telling him that she no longer had any regret, and no animosity toward Miyamoto or him: she didn't blame him. She forgave him, and he felt as though she wanted him to forgive himself. A voice in his head echoed: "In forgiving, we are forgiven. We must not only forgive others, we must also forgive ourselves".

That single moment left more of an impression on his heart than any other significant moment he experienced. Once he was aware of  that, Asako was suddenly standing a short distance away once more, in the place she first materialized. His attention was quicky diverted to the end of the corridor, just behind the transparent vision of Asako. An intense, almost blinding white light slowly emerged from the darkness. Shielding his eyes with one hand Sung Ji could just make out the silhouettes of two figures within the brightness. As he watched, mesmerized, Asako Chan turned to face the light emanating at her back. The air seemed electrified with elation as one of the figures stepped forward with raised and open arms; a beautiful woman whose smile and facial features matched those of Asako. 'The face of the woman in the locket', he thought, 'Asako's mother'. As the girl ran toward and embraced the woman the second figure stepped from the light. It was Toshima; a man Sung Ji recognized as the woodsman who died at the hands of Miyamoto and his men. The parents had come to lead their daughter to the place for which she was destined. A place of rest and sublime Peace she evidently dared not, or could not enter while even one of the murderers still walked among the living.

Momentarily Asako turned to face Sung Ji, a sparkle in her eyes in spite of the tears caressing her cheeks. He was pleased to see her smiling that smile that warmed his soul. The girl's mother turned her eyes toward him then and, with a smile that matched her daughter's, she slightly nodded her head as if in gratitude. Toshima, having averted his attention from his wife and daughter, faced the Korean and bowed, as if showing gratitude and appreciation for his efforts to set things right. As the samurai returned the bow, the three 'spirits' turned toward the light and stepping into it disappeared along with that brilliance from beyond. As the brilliance faded he was once again alone in the darkness of the corridor, yet he no longer felt alone. The sweet scent of jasmine lingered in the air, as did the warmth that followed Asako's appearance. "Heavenly Beauty Child," thought Sung Ji aloud, "she was aptly named."

He stood there in the darkness for what seemed an eternity, lost in thought, trying to make sense of the events of the past few days. Eventually he sighed heavily, took a deep breath and turned toward the door. As he made his way to the entrance his eyes caught the furtive movement of a shadow just inside the corridor. "She was beautiful... 'Ee-buu-ta' your people say."

"Kwai!" exclaimed Sung Ji. "What brings you here?"

Kwai eyed him with a look of impatience before he spoke... "That's the second time you asked me that question. Do you recall my reply previously?"

Sung Ji sulked. "You said you were temporary caretaker of this temple."

"Precisely. And so it follows; why shouldn't I be here? At any rate, I was compelled. Something sixth sense brought me here tonight."

Sung Ji frowned... "I won't ask you what that means, as your explanation would no doubt confuse me more so than that statement."

Kwai smiled.

"You mentioned she was beautiful," said the Korean. "You saw her?"

"Yes," he replied, "not just now. Long ago it seems. That first night I visited the toll bridge."

"You never told me...and you still lived after three days, not like the others..."

Kwai smiled. "I didn't say? You never asked. Back then, at that time, I knew I couldn't help her. It was she who needed help, not Chiang Vu Tien. He has more wealth than any one man should have. But that girl; she was helpless, even though she was a spirit. She was a novice ghost; a young tortured soul. I could do nothing for her. Until now, I had no idea she was the girl from Japan, the one whose death you blamed yourself for. You were the link...the key. All that has happened was necessary for her to be free. You were the tool of Heaven. Remember what I told you: she killed no one. A guilty conscience needs no accuser; those who perished after seeing her met their doom out of fear, guilt or karma. It just so happened in each case it occured on the third day after having seen the phantasm. Since I had done her no harm I had nothing to fear." Kwai paused a moment, as if contemplating something important, then asked... "Did you know the man who attacked you tonight?"

"In a way," replied Ahn. "I'm not certain why he was here. I was tracking him three years ago in Japan. It was he and two of his followers who killed the girl and her father."

"You sound as if you have some regret," said Kwai.

"Not for Miyamoto," revealed the samurai. "He was incorrigible. The life of evil he chose eventually consumed him."

"Like a man who rides a tiger," philosophized Kwai, "he couldn't dismount, else he would be consumed by the beast. Heaven gave him many chances, but he chose evil. He brought about his own destruction... Heaven ordained... Heaven allowed."

Sung Ji smiled. Kwai seemed to have an poetic phrase to fit every situation. But it was true; Miyamoto was incapable of change, and a threat to society. His downfall was his own doing.

"For one who has just had to battle," said Kwai, "you show no wounds or fatigue."

"The girl's magic," replied the samurai. Then quickly changing the subject, he said... "You seemed to know the melody Asako favored. Did you ever hear the girl's flute?"

"What..?" questioned Kwai. "Do you think she played that 'yeon-ga' (love song) on cue?"

It took Sung Ji a moment to realize Kwai was teasing. "I should have expected a response like that from you." Then,  as if the thought suddenly occured to him, he exclaimed... "You just said 'yeon-ga'. That is neither Korean nor Chinese, but rather a mixture of both languages."

"You're not stupid," declared Kwai, "I could have been no help to you if you were dull of mind; I have no medicine to cure stupidity. Sadly, in this world there is no shortage of stupidity."

Sung Ji was silent.

Kwai laughed; "I believe you've solved the riddle of the haunting. You've managed to free the bridge from the curse. Now you must free yourself from your bitterness. Obviously she doesn't blame you."

The Korean nodded, then was startled as Kwai moved toward him. As he approached, Sung Ji noticed that he was eying Asako's locket.

"A gift?" the shaman inquired.

"No," he replied. "It was the girl's. I will return it."

"Once having done so," said Kwai, "your responsibility to her will not be finished."

"Yea," said Sung Ji. "I must never forget her."

 "Precisely," said Kwai. "And visit her resting place. It is only there that you can return the locket to its owner."

Sung Ji nodded his head... "I will return it to her..." Momentarily he asked; "I was wondering..."

Before he could finish the question, Kwai said; "You wondered why I helped you and not any of the others hired by Chiang Tien."

"Yea," said the Korean.

"They were all charlatans. But from the moment I saw you I knew that it was predestined for us to meet, for me to help you, and in doing so help that unfortunate girl find peace. Once Heaven declares this or that, no one, regardless of what they do, can change what has been ordained. When mortals strive to alter what is predestined they only hasten its fulfillment."

The samurai was contemplative.

"What is it?" asked Kwai.

Sung Ji hesitated before speaking... "Then it's over..."

"What did you say? Over.......," repeated Kwai. "On the contrary, it is just beginning."

He considered asking the shaman exactly what he meant by that, but then decided he really didn't want to know. Finally he said; "I was just wondering...how is it that you know things otherworldly?"

Kwai smiled before he replied: "How is it that you do not?"

Sung Ji was speechless, prompting Kwai to reveal... "I can no more answer your question than you can answer mine. I only know that I 'know', and you know that you do not. It is like drawing a straight line between two points; I'm able to explain the two points, but cannot explain every little detail. What I 'know' is only what may happen. The scales of Fate can be tipped, one way or the other, depending on the choices one makes. My knowledge has its limitations, but I try to use it to help others, otherwise it is only useless knowledge."

Sung Ji nodded... "Kam-sam ham ni da (Thank you)," then repeated in Chinese... "Si-shay."

Presently, in the Jade Teahouse, having carried the story to that point, the stranger in the darkened corner took a drink from his cup, then finished the tale... "The task completed, the samurai collected his pay, bid farewell to Kwai and returned to Japan."

Quiet reigned momentarily, broken when Jubai cleared his throat after working up the nerve to boldly ask... "Is that it? Is that how the story ends?"

A heavy silence settled over the room, giving Jubai pause to wonder if it would have been better for him to remain quiet. The stranger ignored the question, raised his cup and finished what remained of his tea. Placing the empty cup down, he stared at it as he spoke... "How does the story end?" he repeated... "There is no end..."

That being said, he lapsed into silence. The patrons of the Jade Teahouse, like Jubai the Dreamer, having hung onto every word of the ghostly tale remained as silent as the stranger had become. Momentarily rising from his chair, he stepped from the corner into the light, garnering an audible gasp from many of those in attendance. Jubai looked at him, then this way and that at the startled faces in the room. Even the rotund landlord was taken aback momentarily as the dark cloaked man approached the bar. The portly proprietor held out his hand as the man stretched his forward, dropping money into his palm. Toshiro's hand trembled as he accepted the coins. Looking at them briefly, he raised his head and then handed them back... "There is no charge for you, sir."

The storyteller accepted the money, bowed in gratitude, and turned to leave. Not a word was said as he walked toward the door. Once he was gone, Mariko, noticing Jubai's puzzlement, revealed... "The 'Left Hand of God'. The man whose story you began; Ahn Sung Ji."

Jubai slowly nodded, speechless, as the Jade Teahouse patrons broke their silence and began chattering nervously to one another. For them, the samurai's tale revealed why the otherworldly incidents in the forest and Toshima's house had ceased. Now the inhabitants of the small village, and Jubai the Dreamer, had a tale of wonder to talk about for many years to come.                                                              

                                                                   CHAPTER 14

The afternoon sun shone brightly above the tall sakura (cherry blossom) trees that lined both sides of the roadway leading from Tsukimi to the mountain forest. The lofty limbs stretched out over the road as if reaching for one another, creating a colorful canopy that almost blocked one's view of the blue sky. White and pink-hued petals fell like snowflakes, carried on the languid breeze that gently stirred the leaves and branches. The lone horseman marveled at the beauty around him. At his back was the isolated village. Before him the forest and the mountain the villagers called 'Heaven's Stepstool'. In the azure haze of distance , rising high above the verdant treetops, one could make out the awe-inspiring, ancient peaks that for centuries had sheltered the peaceful valley from the intrusion of outsiders.

It had been three years since Sung Ji had traveled this road. At that time the sakuras were not yet in full bloom, which wouldn't have mattered. There were those in Tsukimi who spoke of crimson, blood red cherry blossoms that year, following the death of Asako and her father. When the he last traveled this road his thoughts were not focused on the beauty of his surroundings. It was a somber time: a time of bloodshed and death. But it was not tragic memories that brought him back today, nor the sense of guilt and regret that plagued him the last three years. It was respect and honor that brought him this day; he came to remember the dead. It was a journey of reflection: in these three years ago he experiencede many changes and learned more about himself, Destiny, and life. Kwai had said that what we call 'life', and what we call 'death', were but opposite ends of a single thread. Because of Asako, the samurai was now certain that life did not end with one's last breath. There was more, beyond the grave, and he had come to accept another thing Kwai said... "Those who are alive should concern themselves with their duties and responsibilities, live their lives to the fullest, and face death and Destiny without regret." As he rode, his mind drifted back in time, to one of the last conversations he had with Kwai before leaving China: "Life," said the mystic, "is something that happens while we are busy making plans. It is a stream that is ever flowing, carrying each of us along on its currents toward our individual Destinies. Life is Destiny and Fate in action. Fate, which offers no apologies, is no more than a collection of amazing coincidences. To deal with it effectively, one must foster and develope 'acceptance'; a quiet acceptance of the inevitable. It helped me," said the Chinese, "to handle the grief that followed the death of my wife."

 That revelation made it clear to the samurai why Kwai didn't talk much about his past; there were painful memories. Yet in spite of  that, he managed to raise his daughter. 'Acceptance...' thought Sung Ji. It was one of the first things he had learned in life, and it served him well and often when dealing with adversity and those things over which he had no control. Grief or guilt, both were opressive and stubborn burdens, even for a seasoned warrior who placed righteousness above personal needs or desires. Being an agent of Justice was not easy his Master once told him... "All life is precious and cannot be replaced. For a samurai there are times when taking life is not a matter of choice. It must to be done to protect oneself or others. It is the 'Way' of 'slaying with mercy'; it is considered merciful to put predators out of their own misery, simultaneously making the world a safer place for all honest individuals. His Master said: "Spare the guilty, endanger the innocent." Yet once done, the deed would become a spiritual burden for one whose heart is good. Sung Ji knew it was not the wounds of battle that burdened him, but the 'wounds' he caused others. "The moment one draws the blade is the moment 'regret' begins." his Master taught him. "It is something a warrior of Justice must accept."

Sung Ji could accept that. A confrontation between swordsmen usually ended when one was either injured severely or dead. That was the natural result of combat. The burden that plagued him the most was regret for the death of two innocents; two who met their end at the hands of outlaws he promised to bring to Justice. All that was history now, and because of his experience in China, and mainly because of Asako, he was learning to forgive himself. He knew she had forgiven him for his sport in hunting Miyamoto and his men. What happened was the Will of Heaven and could not be changed. The only things that could be changed were the attitudes and perceptions of those affected by the events. The previous evening, in the Jade Teahouse, a villager remarked that it was rumored Asako had committed suicide. The comment angered the samurai, but rather than rail at the man for what he knew was common 'country boy ignorance', he simply declared that Asako died without knowing the outlaws killed her father. In an attempt to elude them and preserve her chastity she either leaped from the cliff, hoping to land in the pool beneath the falls, or because of fright misjudged her steps in the darkness and ran off the edge. The 'country boy' opened his mouth to argue, until his eyes met Sung Ji's; having done so a frightened expression replaced the one of aggravation that was first there, and in the next instant the man lowered his eyes and simply said... "Hai," in agreement. The incident, for Sung Ji, was another opportunity to correct or make right what he considered to be unfair or unjust. He disliked rumors, and if he failed to protect Asako while she lived, at least he could protect her reputation now that she was gone.

Lost in thought, he suddenly realized he had reached the mountain. Although he had not been paying attention, oddly enough his black Arabian appeared to remember the way, needing no prodding or guidance. The road had taken him to the mountain, and the steep trail that led to the forest above where Toshima's cabin was, and the great 'twin-tree', which kept an eternal vigil over the resting place of Asako Chan and her parents.

Before beginning the climb, Sung Ji paused to admire his surroundings. It was no mystery why Toshima chose to settle here; the grandeur and natural beauty of the area were beyond the samurai's ability to describe with mere words. As he gazed about, the multitude of emotions evoked by the seven kilometer roadway lined with sakura trees that led to the mountain, the mountain itself, the falls and pool, forest and river, all were awe-inspiring. It was difficult for him to imagine that Asako lost her life here at the base of the escarpment; an ugly, unfair tragedy in such a beautiful place.

Momentarily the samurai prompted the horse to move, beginning the arduous climb upward. Once having reached the top, he was pleased to see that many of the saplings and smaller trees Chiang's workers left behind had grown since the larger trees had been cut down. He wasn't certain what he expected to find, but after having discovered that it was Chiang who had purchased the house and property from Toshima San's sister, and that the wood for his toll bridge had come from the trees here he imagined a barren landscape. Not so, although the forest was not as dense as he remembered. Chiang Tien had promised he would not totally destroy the woods, or Toshima's house. Evidently he was a man of his word; a man who could be trusted. The samurai noted that the areas of bamboo were left untouched. There were many trees tall enough now for nesting birds, and other foliage covered the spaces between the trees. Nature had a way of enduring, and always managed to overcome whatever devastaton mankind managed to create.

Of all the trees in the forest, the one tree that stood out from, and was unique among the others, was one that Sung Ji could not help but marvel at. It was Asako's special 'twin-tree', towering far above the others, even before Chiang Tien's workers cut many of the mature trees. The Korean knew the Japanese people had a sincere respect for nature, and held in high regard those ancient trees that managed to survive for eons. He wondered how many generations had come and gone while this twin-tree flourished. 'It must be hundreds of years old', he imagined. Yet the feature he found most outstanding was that it was in fact two trees that grew and matured together, limbs intertwined like lover's arms. He could understand why Asako and her family loved it so much.

Having reached the tree, he dismounted, secured the horse's reins to the small iron fence that surrounded and protected it, and placed flowers before the graves of Asako and her parents. As he bowed down three times in respect, he noticed the jasmine that had grown wild beneath the great twin-tree. The sweet aroma reminded him of the girl. He knew it was only the wind, but for just a moment he imagined he heard the sound of her flute... 'echoing softly through the corridors of time...' he pondered. That thought surprised him; "I'm beginning to think like a poet," he said aloud. 'And talking to myself...' he contemplated with a smile. Stretching, he spread his arms wide as he took a deep breath of  fresh mountain air, sighed, and then, dropping to his knees, he slowly removed the stones that sealed Asako's remains. He handled them carefully, one at a time until, having removed them all, he retrieved the urn containing her ashes. After removing the seal, he took a leather pouch from beneath his tunic, and then the girl's silver locket from the pouch. He wrapped the locket in an expensive, rare silk fabric before placing it in the urn. Afterward, he resealed it and respectfully returned it to its place, followed by the stones, securing her remains in the safety of the grave. Kneeling there quietly, he allowed his mind to lapse into silence. He tuned out the droning of the cicadas, singing of the birds and the distant roar of the waterfall. Following a silent prayer, he bowed again, three times, for the highest respect. The first bow honored Heaven and earth, the second one's parents, and third to honor one another. As he raised his head after the final bow, his eyes locked onto something: atop grave was the flute hand-made by Toshima, resting on a folded piece of rice paper. Neither items were there a moment ago; both had suddenly appeared, in a blink... "from where..." he wondered. The flute had been buried with the girl's bones, and was in the urn just minutes ago when he placed her locket inside. An icy chill ran up his spine, not from fear, but from some other emotion he couldn't have descibed if asked to do so. Curiously, he reached for the flute and rice paper. Placing the flute inside his shirt he unfolded the paper, upon which were written Japanese Kanji characters. Addressed to Ahn Sung Ji, the brief note stated; "If I had lived in this world long enough to find my first love, I would have hoped to find someone like you. For all you have done, 'Ari gatou go zai masu' (Thank you). I will never forget you." It was signed "Asako Chan".

After reading those words aloud, he was startled to see them slowly fade away, until finally he was staring at a blank piece of paper, after which a sudden gust of wind tore it from his hands. Carried skyward by the wind, he watched until it was gone from sight. Following a few minutes of silence and reflection he mounted the horse. There were others, he was certain, who may require his sword of Justice. Astride the saddle, he paused, taking in the scenery as he took in another deep breath of fresh mountain air and sweet aroma of jasmine. He pulled the flute from beneath his shirt as he turned the horse to leave. At that moment something compelled him to look back. Doing so, for just an instant he thought he saw Asako Chan's mother, bathed in sun light, her white dress moving hypnotically in the breeze. She was smiling as she gazed at him, perhaps expressing gratitude. He blinked and the vision was gone, leaving him to wonder if it was his imagination or a trick of the failing light. But then something told him it was exactly what it appeared to be: an apparition; a pleasing sight meant for him alone. Turning his attention once more to the path ahead, he urged the horse to move. As it stepped forward, Sung Ji placed the flute to his lips and began to play Asako Chan's favorite melody, the lilting, melancholy notes languidly floating away on the cool breeze of evening.

                                                                       EPILOGUE

The spring breeze gradually cooled as the sun descended closer to the Western peaks, heralding the coming of night. Birds flocked to the trees and their nests, singing and chirping a cacophony of sound as cicadas ceased their steady droning. The small family of four just passed by the emerald green bamboo forest, and had almost reached the sapling oak trees beyond when Ryoko stopped suddenly, a frightened expression distorting  her attractive features. Her husband, Junichi, first hesitated and then stopped as well. Standing still, his back was rigid with tension as he strained his incredulous ears.

"Asako!" exclaimed little Kyoko Chan.

Junichi, who didn't believe in the existence of the supernatural, couldn't deny that he heard the melody of his niece's favorite love song; "It can't be true," he stammered, as he attempted to hold his daughter from running ahead, a trembling hand on each shoulder.

But it was true. The musical notes, carried on the wings of the evening breeze were real enough. As the foursome stood there apprehensively, the sound of the flute became louder, as if the player was approaching, coming closer and in their direction. Motionless as they waited, they were surprised to see a lone horseman round the bend in the road ahead. The rider, emerging from the trees, appeared to be samurai, with traditional twin swords secured to his obi. His hands on the flute as he played, the dark horse trotted along with purpose, seemingly without guidance. When the rider saw the four standing in the road just ahead, he stopped his song and grasped the horse's reins with his right hand. As the animal halted, the horseman stared at the tiny family a moment until recognition took hold. It had been three years, but he knew Asako Chan's relatives almost the moment he saw them. Little Kyoko Chan and her brother had grown in that time, but Sung Ji still recognized them. The boy, Sajiro, hidden behind his father, peeked his head out as he held a tight grip on one of Junichi's arms. Kyoko managed to break loose from her father's grasp and tried to run forward, only to be stopped by her mother.

"Ahn-yeong-e ha-se-yo' (Hello)!" Sung Ji cried out.

Ryoko relaxed and a heavy sigh of relief escaped her as her husband smiled and returned the greeting.

"Ko-ban-wa (Good evening)!" he hailed. 

Sung Ji urged the horse forward, stopped before the small group and dismounted. He had already placed the flute inside his leather saddlebag, not wishing to incite suspicion; it would be difficult to explain that it was a posthumous gift from Asako.

"You were playing auntie's song," exclaimed Kyoko Chan. "She told me she was going to give you her flute. Did you see her?"

Before he could recover from the shock of having been asked such a completely unexpected question, Ryoko turned abruptly and, looking at her daughter scolded; "Kyoko! What have I told you about saying such things?"

Kyoko Chan bowed her head, pouting.

"There is much more to Heaven's creation than we know," said the Korean. "The eyes of innocence see more than we percieve. The burdens of this life often consume us, taking us further away from sensing or seeing what is beyond the ordinary. While we see only with our eyes, children often 'see' with their hearts."

Kyoko beamed when he spoke those words... "Papa said when an innocent dies they become a star in the heavens. From there they can watch over the ones who love them. Is cousin Asako now a star in 'Ten goku' (Heaven country)?" she asked with a sparkle in her eyes.

"Kyoko..." said her mother.

"That's enough now, Kyoko," said Junichi, fearing Ryoko may lose patience with the girl.

"Cousin Asako is a new star in the sky," she repeated, "right, Mama?"

"I believe your Papa is right," Sung Ji intervened.

Ryoko blushed, knowing Kyoko Chan and the samurai were right; there was more to Heaven's creation than could be seen with the eyes. She either experienced or sensed things otherworldly much more than once the past three years. At the moment she sensed something about the horseman: there was much more to Ahn Sung Ji than the obvious. For an instant she sensed Asako Chan was following him, which caused her to shudder. Why she suddenly 'sensed' that she couldn't say, but 'felt' it was more than just a random thought. Something also told her that she shouldn't doubt her daughter or stifle her imagination. She reminded herself how incredulous and doubtful Junichi was when it came to anything metaphysical. Although she didn't wish to encourage Kyoko, she knew she shouldn't treat her scornfully either. The fact was Ryoko was frightened by even the thought of ghosts or spirits and it unnerved her when Kyoko Chan talked of having either seen or spoken to her late cousin. Finally she smiled at the Korean; "Did you come to pay your respects?"

"Yea," he replied. Then asked if he could speak to her a moment in private. Ryoko asked her husband to go ahead with the children. Once he had she raised her eyes to look into Sung Ji's. Before he could speak she asked... "Did you want to tell me that outlaw is dead?"

Sung Ji was mildly shocked, his expression giving away what he must have been thinking. Ryoko continued: "You wonder how I could have known that. I think it was just two weeks ago. Kyoko said that Asako Chan told her the evil man was gone."

A chill ran up Sung Ji's back. "Kyoko Chan was right," he said. "That man died by his own hand. He was trying to kill me at the time."

A tear appeared, running down one of Ryoko 's rose-hued cheeks. "These last three years have been hard," she said slowly.

"But Justice prevails," said Sung Ji. "It only remains for us to accept the things about which we can do nothing. A wise man in China told me that many things in this world happen for a reason. We must trust Heaven, be strong, patient, and do the best we can each day for ourselves and our loved ones. Life is just a sojourn; a place where we dwell temporarily. When those we love have left us behind, all we can do is mourn for a time, miss them, and keep the memory of them always in our mind and heart. They would want us to live and live well; that is precisely what your brother and niece would want you to do. They are in a better place now...all their problems are over."

Ryoko studied the samurai for a moment. "You're right, aren't you," she said with a smile. "Inochi wa tsuzuku' (Life continues). Asako Chan is lucky to have had you. I'm grateful for all you've done for my family."

"No need for gratitude," he said. "I'll never forget finding Toshima San in these woods that night, or seeing your niece for the first time, so innocent and fragile; I was inspired to protect her then, but it was already too late. Like her father, she was a victim of those evil men. I should never have allowed those outlaws to reach this mountain..." For a moment he withdrew into himself as his words faded off. Then snapping out of it he declared; "Whatever I did since then, directly or indirectly, was meant to be; it was my purpose. And you're right; 'inochi wa tsuzuku'...life goes on."

Ryoko was silent, tears running down both cheeks. Sung Ji placed a hand on one of her slim shoulders, then smiling, embraced her in a physical show of support. "You should join your family at the gravesite."

"Hai," she replied, then added... "I truly hope you don't blame yourself for the tragedy. It is not grief that scars, but guilt."

He lowered his eyes. She reached out a hand to grip one of his, squeezed tightly as she smiled, then releasing him she turned to walk away.

Still grasping the reins of his black Arabian, he watched as Ryoko walked toward the forest. After taking a few steps she turned and asked: "My brother's flute...the one he made for my niece. Did she give it to you?"

Sung Ji nodded.

Ryoko smiled. "She must have loved you very much..."

Sung Ji, in affirmation, returned the smile.

"The song," said Ryoko. "Where did you learn that song?"

"I've heard it since I was a boy," he replied. "But I never knew how to play it. It just seemed to happen..."

"It was her favorite," revealed Ryoko... "Asako Chan's mother, Aoi. My brother used to play it for her. He taught it to my niece."

The samurai nodded.

"Will you be staying long?" Ryoko asked.

"No," Sung Ji replied.

"You'll be returning home?"

"No," he said. "I have no home... I will wander."

Ryoko was silent a moment before saying... "It seems a shame...you do so much for others, yet in this big world you have no place in which to rest."

Sung Ji smiled. "Don't worry about me," he replied. "I have the sky above, the earth beneath, and Heaven to guide my steps."

"I should tell you," she confided, "that Chinese man, Chiang Vu Tien...he returned the property to us."

The samurai was noticeably surprised... "Did he?"

"Hai," she replied. "He gave no reason, and refused to accept any payment. But he did say something odd...he hoped 'the girl' could finally rest in peace. I assume he meant Asako Chan, but I really don't understand."

"He's not as materialistic as I imagined," said the samurai. "I'm pleased to know he doesn't care only for wealth."

Seeing she was confused, he added... "I'll tell you a story some day; of my experiences in China these last few months."

She paused, as if carefully contemplating what to say. Finally she spoke: "You'll always have a place in my heart. Don't be a stranger..."

"We'll meet again," he promised. "We have something in common...she loved you and your family very much as well."

Ryoko, still smiling, repeated his words. "We'll meet again... 'Yaku-so-ku' (Promise)?"

"Yea. Yaku-so-ku," he replied. "I promise."

"Until next time," said Ryoko. "Safe journey."

"Ahn-young-yi kay-se-yo' (Goodbye/stay in peace)," replied Sung Ji.

After she had rounded the bend and disappeared behind the trees, he climbed onto the saddle. It was twilight and would be dark before he returned to Tsukimi. He had not asked, but imagined Ryoko and her family would be staying in Toshima's house. He believed she considered asking him to stay for dinner and rest, but then expected him to decline. She was right: he felt this time of remembrance was for family only. As for himself, he had made no plans beyond visiting Asako's resting place. For now he would return to Tsukimi, board his horse at the stable and spend a night at the Inn adjacent to the Jade Teahouse. A good meal and a good nights' sleep would be nice, he thought, and would give him the energy to face a new day and the journey to wherever his Destiny would take him next. Taking a few moments to look at the forest in the fading light, he thought of something else Kwai had said: "Generations from the dust arise, and to the dust return. New life will always replace the old. That is Heaven's plan."

Reaching into his saddlebag, he retrieved Asako's flute, placed it to his lips, and began to play her mother's favorite song of love: 'A perfect requiem', he reflected, as the melodious notes rose skyward. The horse, sensing it was time to leave began a slow trot forward as the setting sun turned the sky above the western peaks amber and gold.

 copyright CWB 2007