“It’s close enough,” Sami said. She crossed her arms in the all-too-familiar way, daring me to challenge her.

It wasn’t much of a dare.

“No, it is not.” I fought back the urge to sigh.

Why the Sisterhood had gifted me with such a stubborn apprentice, I would never understand. Was I not faithful? Had I not already taught over a dozen new Sisters? Had I not suffered enough?

Such questions were not mine to answer, even if they were mine to ask.

Sami huffed. It sounded like the tomcat who sulked around the back porch when he didn’t like the scraps I left outside before going to bed. I imagined her with whiskers and a tail, meowing instead of whining.

“What? Why are you smiling?”

“No reason.” I schooled my face again. “But it is not close enough. There is right and there is wrong. There is no grey area.”

“Yes, it is.”

I pointed at the rosebush in front of Sami. “Then make it grow.”

“Rosa woodea crecea brilla.” Her face turned as red as the rose’s petals, but nothing happened with the rose. She glared at it, as if that would make a difference.

“The rose is obviously defective.” She pushed herself back from the table.

“A rose cannot be defective. It is what it is. Your pronunciation is wrong. If it cannot hear its name, it will not follow your instructions.”

Another huff and glaring out the window.

“Rosa woodii crecia briya.” I enunciated each word more slowly and deliberately than was necessary, for her benefit. The rosebush could hear just fine.

The rosebuds opened into full bloom and new shoots appeared on the main stems. More buds appeared and opened, like all of summer season happening in an afternoon.

“Paren rosa.”

It shook once as if there was a strong gust of wind then was quiet. A quiet rosebush again.

I walked over the greenhouse door and turned back to Sami. “There is no close enough. There is only right or there is wrong.”

She glared at me again. “Fine.” The word was spat like a bitter seed to the ground.

“You need to attend to what I tell you. There are more serious matters than roses in your future.”

I shut the door before she could reply. There was only so much one could take in a day and Sami was walking closer to the edge of my temper than she knew. Close enough could get her killed.

There must be more to life than this.

How many times, by how many people, in how many languages and places had said this?

Too many too count…

How many had thought it during another unending discussion in a windowless conference room about a policy that no one cared about and no one would remember three months from now?

Too many for a focus group…

How many had screamed it into the silence of their darkened apartments after a dozen hours of thankless work for faceless entities that couldn’t even be bothered to learn their names?

Too many to ignore…

How many had whispered it before a smile crept over their faces and they walked away from everything they thought they were told they needed, wanted, had to have?

Too few…

…but one fewer, Maggie thought to herself as she raised a hand to her mouth to cover her grin. No one grinned at the droning tone which her manager reported the quarter budget numbers. She circled tomorrow’s date in her planner. One more day. A lifetime, a blink, a promise, a goal that had nothing to do with reallocating budget lines and increasing the ROI for the SEO of yet another product that no one needed.

There must be more to life than this…

…and a feeling, tingling, different from the low-grade dread and anxiety that sat like sludge in her belly each day appeared. At first, she was worried, but then Maggie had to cough to cover the laugh that threatened to interrupt the meeting.

There must be more to life than this…

…yes, there is, she yelled triumphant in her head.

And her soul whispered back…

Life starts now.    

“Move!” the assassin brushed passed the tea mistress who was wailing and shoved the knife back into its hiding place.

The boy lay unmoving in front of them, his face dusky pale. He didn’t respond when the assassin shook him. She felt for his pulse it was weak and there was no breath. The Path around him was fraying. There was no time.

“His hands are sticky,” the assassin said as the tea mistress looked at her with inconsolable sorrow and incomprehension.

The assassin picked him up as if he were a sack of rice and thrust her fist into his stomach as she held him.

Once, again. Nothing happened.

The tea mistress stood up and began slapping the assassin. Yelling at her to stop desecrating his body.

The assassin ignored her as she thrust her fist into the boy’s stomach again. And with this came a soft plop and a mochi ball sailed out of his mouth onto the floor.

He gasped and his mother froze, hand halfway back to strike the assassin. And into the silence she cried again. This time in joy.

The assassin lowered the boy gently so he could sit. The color returned to his cheeks, like the spring cherry blossoms, and his breathing became regular. The Path around him stitched itself back together, although only the assassin noticed. Neither the tea mistress nor her son noticed the soft glow that radiated from under the assassin’s hand as she steadied the boy until his breathing returned to normal. It was probably a trick of the light.

The tea mistress flung her arms around her son. She sobbed and the assassin left them alone. She watched the sun begin to lighten the horizon as she finished the last of her tea. Then she hoisted her pack and slipped out of the tea room. She scuffed the symbols she’d carved in the ground with the sole of her boot. They were no longer needed as she resumed walking down the road.

She had not yet gone passed the crossroad signpost when she heard the tea mistress running towards her and yelling, “Wait!”

So she did.

“What is your name?” the tea mistress asked.

“Assassins have no names.”

The tea mistress shook her head. “Everyone has a name. Mine is Asako.”

The assassin bowed. It was an honor to be told a person’s name, even more rare to be accorded the honor of hearing a person’s familiar name apart from one’s clan. But even then, the assassin only replied, “Then call me what you will.”

The tea mistress nodded, unsurprised. “Then I will remember you as the North Wind, assassin, for you blew three troubles away me and mine.”

The assassin may have inclined her head. Then, again, it may have been a trick of the wind. “Peace be on your Path.”

“And ten-fold on yours.” The tea mistress bowed deeply and lowered her eyes to the ground. When she looked up, the assassin was gone. The moon smiled down as the clouds passed from its face. It would disappear soon as the sun claimed its place in the sky and the wind brought with it the smell of the sea. The tea mistress shook her head and laughed, and perhaps the assassin heard it and smiled. Perhaps.

In the darkest stretch of night, when even the earth forgot that there was ever anything but the reign of the moon in the sky, there were only three souls left in the tea house at the crossroads. The man who warned of the yokai and their fire had left after the assassin determined he would travel in the opposite direction of the thieves. Innocent blood spilled was not a wish of any true assassin. This left the assassin, the tea mistress, and the boy.

The boy had been hovering on the edge of sleep for the last several hours. He startled awake every time his chin touched his chest and looked over to see if the assassin noticed. She pretended that she didn’t, that she too was half-asleep. Now and then, he’d sneak a ball of mochi when he thought his mother was not looking. He’d toss it in the air and catch it in his mouth, then savor the chewiness and the belief that the sweetness would help him stay alert.

The assassin watched with what was perhaps a shadow of a smile as she tried not to consider the blessing that would be if the third trouble passed them by. Such good fortune happened to those born under a lucky star.

The stars did not shine the night the assassin was born.

The tea mistress came and sat across from the assassin. A lock of her hair had come loose and she hadn’t bothered to tie it back up, as was proper. But there was only the assassin and her son and neither cared.

“It will be dawn soon,” the tea mistress said.

The assassin nodded.

“Why does trouble come in threes?”

“It simply does,” the assassin replied.

“But why?”

The assassin shrugged. “That is a question for the kami, not for me.”

The tea mistress opened her mouth with another question, but was stopped by the sudden change in the assassin’s attention. She moved like a cat the moment that it spotted prey, going from languid disinterest to singular focus in an instant.

“Where is your son?”

The tea mistress swiveled around to point where he was dozing, but her son was not there. She stood, knees knocking against the table leg, and ran over to where he had been sitting.

The assassin followed the tea mistress, a knife already in her hand. There had been no wind, the symbols in the dirt should have held. The tengu should not have been able to enter. Tracking the boy would be difficult where they tread.

The tea mistress screamed as she fell to her knees.

The yokai at the front of the pack appeared to hit an invisible wall before they reached the tea house porch. They were flung backwards, toppling those behind them. The howls morphed into cries and furious chattering. The tengu tried to fly to the tea house, above the others, but they too slammed into a barrier, falling on the pile of bodies below. They turned as one back on the assassin, who looked on, impassive.

“A wall?!”

“That language is not yours to use!”

“How dare you?!”

“It is our due!”

“We hunger!”

“You will pay, human!”

The shouts of the yokai tripped over each other like a nightmare chorus as they came to circle around the assassin. The smell of bogs and soot, mountain breeze and dusty paper, burned wood and ice clashed in the air around her. Most would tremble, even the bravest of warriors who faced death and lived. Still, she was not moved.

“There are other, easier prey on the road tonight,” she said as if commenting on the weather.

The shouting stopped as swiftly as if a kami had taken their voices. What passed for smiles transformed their anger into glee.

“Easier prey, say you? Where?” the oni who was the current leader asked. “They must not be far or easy they are not.”

“Two, on a horse, down that way.” She pointed past the tea house, towards the sea. “Easy.”

“You have a quarrel with them.” It was not a question.

“The humans. Not the horse. Leave the horse unharmed.”

The oni narrowed its eyes at her. “You do not order us.”

“I do.” She leaned forward and smiled. It was not kind. The torchlight reflected off her teeth and the oni reared back as if struck.

“What do we want with a horse? Human prey is sweeter!”

A cheer went up from the gathered yokai and they did not notice the slight tremor in the oni’s voice. They moved off as one, silent now so as to not spook their prey.

The assassin watched until she could no longer see even an afterburn of a torch when she blinked her eyes. Then she returned to the tea house, knocked three times on the door without saying a word, and was let in. She sat down and waited. First for tea, which came quickly. Then for the third trouble, which would come when it did. There was no hurrying either time or trouble.

There was the world of the humans and the world of the spirits. These two worlds rarely crossed. Of course, there were ghosts and hauntings and wild tales of mysterious things. But then, that was the way of the worlds. Sometimes crossings happened. Sometimes there was a reason. Sometimes not. The assassin did not spare much thought to the spirit world.

Those that did not fit neatly in either world were a different matter. The assassin considered them carefully. Only fools did not and they did not come out the other side of an encounter with the yokai intact.

The assassin watched the procession bobbing and weaving towards her and the tea house. It would have been beautiful, if the fire had been glowing lanterns floating down a calm river. But it was not. The assassin breathed in and out, steady and unhurried, with a pause between the inhale and exhale. It was the same pattern as if she were focusing an arrow upon an unsuspecting target. The space between breaths. That was the assassin’s place of calm, of planning, of waiting.

The individual yokai resolved themselves out of the night and the assassin, who was not the praying kind, prayed that the tea mistress and others heeded her warning and were not watching from the windows. It was not a sight for human eyes. The fire gleamed off red skin and eyes too large for human faces. Claws that promised deep scars and pain and wings that shimmered in colors indescribable. The oni were in the lead, followed by kappa and kamaitachi with the tengu circling behind. There were others, too many to see at once, but the assassin numbered them all. It would be unfortunate to meet them under the moon tonight.

The oni leading the procession stopped short when it saw the assassin leaning casually against the post as if she saw such things every night. A cry, hungry, rose from its throat and propagated down the line until the night was filled with shrieks and yowls that could cause white hair and frozen blood.

“What are you doing, human?” the oni said, pointing its torch at the assassin. “It is bad fortune to meet as this…for you.”

The assassin did not answer immediately, but pushed away from the post and cocked her head to the side in acknowledgement. It was not how she had planned to spend the night.

“We will give you a chance to run…the tea house is near.”

“The tea house is beyond your reach.”

Howls reverberated down the line. Nothing was beyond the reach of the yokai at night.

“You are on dangerous ground, human.”

The assassin looked down at her boots, travel stained with dust. The ground felt solid enough. It would do. “No.”

“No?” A look of confusion passed over the oni’s face. Those they found on the road rarely had the wherewithal to speak, yet alone argue.

“It is you who are on ground that is not yours for the taking.”

But before she finished speaking, the yokai surged as one, howling, towards the tea house.

The tea mistress and the boy ran to the door. The traveler barely managed to avoid colliding with them and stumbled forward. The assassin caught his arm.

“You should rest.”

“Rest?!” His eyes were those of cornered prey, wild and panicked. “I have to get out of here!” He tried to turn, but found himself restrained by the assassin.

“Staying is wise.” She glanced away as if listening for something only she could hear. “The tea is still warm.”

He sank to his knees, unsure of why, and didn’t try to lunge past the assassin for the door again.

The assassin neither lingered nor hurried to the door of the tea house. The tea mistress was standing on the porch, clutching her son’s shoulders. She turned when the assassin stepped beside her.

“What will we do?”

“Go inside and draw the screens across the windows. Close the door and do not open it for any reason until you hear me knock three times. Do not open it if I ask it of you. I will knock and say nothing. You will know it is me.”

“What will you do?”

“I will meet them and see that the fire passes you by.” And the assassin stepped from the porch to the road and didn’t look back. She had eyes only for the procession winding its way up the road towards the tea house. It looked like a river of fire, the torches bobbed and swayed in time with some rhythm no one outside the procession could hear.

They were still too far away for even the assassin’s clear sight to distinguish individuals among the marchers. But she didn’t need to see them to know they were not human. Experience told her so. That and the maelstrom of the Path that made the night darker than it should have been with the moon in the sky. The Path was not on good terms with the marchers who would be upon the crossroads and the tea house before a new kettle of water was boiled.

The assassin pulled the knife she’d relieved the thief of out of her sleeve and began carving a series of symbols in the dirt at the foot of the tea house. They weren’t in any language written by the clans on the island. Nor were they known to any on the outer islets. They weren’t spoken either, at least, not by humans. But the assassin carved them with a sure hand as easily as if she had been painting on a scroll with a brush.

Then she walked to the crossroads and leaned, uncharacteristically, against the weathered post signaling the ways and distances beyond. And she waited. Assassins often did.

There is a saying that trouble waits for the unsuspecting, ill-prepared, and arrogant. But in the assassin’s experience, trouble came for everyone regardless of how suspicious, prepared, or humble one was. Trouble was truly as impartial as the wind when it came to blowing into one’s life. And there was no way to avoid it or change its course, although many tried. The assassin preferred not to waste her time on such thankless pursuits. She simply waited.

The others in the tea house left after an hour when nothing happened. Other travelers came, none the wiser, ate and left. Few spared a passing glance at the assassin sitting as still as a statue at the table near the door. She watched everyone, noting where they hid their knives and treasure, which leg they favored, and how polite they were to the tea mistress. None stayed long as the sun was fast sinking towards the sea and the light through the windows took on the rusty sheen that signaled night coming to claim its due.

The tea mistress, the assassin, and the boy who sneezed were the only constants in the tea house. The assassin watched the boy carefully. It was rare to see someone so young, so alone in a tea house at a crossroad. But although he appeared alone, he was not. The Path was kind to him, but more than that, the tea mistress was his mother. Both took pains to hide the bond, but it was as obvious as the first cherry blossom on a bare branch after winter to one who observed carefully. And the assassin did.

Another hour passed and no trouble came through the door. The tea mistress had begun cleaning her counter again, though it didn’t need it. The boy tapped his fingers against his knee, beating out a rhythm that he didn’t realize was almost as old as the marker of the crossroads itself. The assassin did not fidget, but drank more tea.

The sun set. The moon rose. And still the Path did not sweep in trouble through the door.

Perhaps, trouble found an unluckier soul tonight. The assassin’s bones ached as she allowed herself to close her eyes for a moment, which was when trouble smiled wickedly.

The tea house door slid open with a snap and a wide-eyed traveler stumbled inside.

“Fire!” he yelled. “They are bringing fire!”