[!] The pages of the Spirit Synopsis [!]
"Yūrei Gushiken's Backstory | Where the Caged Birds Fly"
You want to know who I am? Where I’ve been and who I’ve become? But that is not easy as a few simple words. And I know well, I have not recollected it in many years. But because I want you to realize, you hold your own lock and key for the shackles of life experience, I will tell you. Of all the upward battles I faced silently, dragging onward for something I believed I lacked. Yet it strikes me only now, I did have what I needed. But whether it was fear or ignorance, I did not simply unlock my binds sooner. As you are more than likely doing at present. What do my riddles of locks and keys, and prisons have to do with anything you may ask? Well you will in time understand what I am speaking of. Let us start at the beginning then, of my first appearance in this world.
Some may have called it a cruel fate indeed. They may have said that the path I walked soon after was fate and any other would have done the same. But I disagree, it was foolishness. Though, if it had been done any other way, I may have still walked blindly in this world.
My mother and father were cruel people. Who, I do not remember much of, other than what I read in a file on myself. I was stolen or maybe freed from their care before I was old enough to agree. Although I’m sure it was for the best, in the file it spoke of how I’d been beaten to a point of no recognition. This could have explained a number of behaviors I experienced. I remember vividly being punished for attacking one of the caregivers at the place I lived. The home for kids who had nowhere else to go.
It was a cold atmosphere, at least in my experience. Most of the children seemed hopeless, especially the older ones. The younger children held a strong resolve, a wild spirit. But that too faded with time. The winters were the worst of that home. They were deadly. We hadn’t a lick of heat in the place. We huddled together on several occasions so we wouldn’t gain frostbite. One of the smaller girls died of phenomena. Her room and whatever she had touched, stunk with sickness. The scent was vile. I stayed clear of it as best I could, but sickness spread easily in the home. It was well and truly a miracle I did not catch a case bad enough to parish. Yet the fear of it was enough to make it hell.
And they were terribly religious. They made us perform tasks dedicated to kami. It was tiresome and meaningless work to me at the time. For what kid enjoys labor for some “god” they cannot see nor touch. They spoke of how the kami guided our lives, but if that was true I thought, they must have hated me for sending me to that home. And so I in turn chose to hate them back. For they would get no grateful prayers or offering for dooming me to such a fate.
The only escape was to be fostered, taken away by some lonely people who filled the void with children. I didn’t see it as appealing at all. And no one wanted a rebellious little youngster who stuck his tongue out and spat at guests. Nor a boy who hadn’t the manners to say thank you or the behavior to sit still.
I was often alone, the other kids stayed clear of me. But in all honesty I dragged them down into my wild antics on several occasions. When I was 16, at that point I’d lived in the home for twelve years, I realized how tiresome the caretakers of the home had grown of me. And I knew my days were being counted, for I’d seen what happened. Once you outgrew the age they were required to keep you, they’d throw you into the streets like an unwanted dog. Which really is a cruel thing, it sets one up for a terrible life. Just because no one wanted the odd kid.
But I digress, I would not tolerate them getting the pleasure of booting me from the place. So I gained some side work in town. I lived in Kotohira, Japan, a small town you probably aren’t familiar with. I saved for months, money, hiding it under my pillow so the caretakers would not see. And one night, I designated it as my freedom. I took all the belongings under my name, of which there were very few, and I never turned back. I thought this was my freedom, away from my looming past, the cold and restricting treatment. But I had only stumbled into another cage.
For a while, I traveled. Sneaking aboard trains, as they took me from town to town. I had no destination, only the want to feel in a sense “alive.” And for a time I did, the wind rushing past me as I hung on the edge of the tracks. It gave me a thrill I had lacked my entire life. But that soon vanished when I had run dry of the things I needed to live. I had no money, no food, no way to keep myself afloat in the world. And this is where I became desperate, so desperate I was willing to do whatever it took.
Like a piece of candy dangling in front of my face, I shook the hand of a mere stranger. And just like that, at age 18, I was a part of what they called a gang. It was nowhere close to a yakuza. It was structured as a bunch of runaways such as myself and a few hopeless adults with nothing left. The gang was called Jiyuutori, meaning freedom bird. Still caged, it was an illusion. It was common for us to steal money. Pickpocketing the rich because they wouldn’t notice it missing. Did it make it any less wrong? Of course not. The rich giving to the poor is a nice thought, but not if it's unconsented.
I made my way up the line slowly, I was given more risky tasks by Jiyuutori higher ups. It had been gruntal work for the first year. A repetition of taking while others were distracted. Or being a direct distraction while a buddy did the taking in turn. I don’t remember much of the faces of the victims. At the time I was thrilled with the idea of fitting in, I did not consider the consequences. Nor would I for years afterward. I was a part of Jiyuutori for three years.
For most of the final year of my time there, I was just turning 20, I did mostly mug work. I would back innocents into allies, threaten their lives, though I knew I wouldn’t ever follow that notion through. I did this until they spilled the innards of their pockets and wallets. Once or twice I drew blood with the knife I used to make them fear me. And I swore my heart was beating faster than theirs. I felt a strong sickness afterward, the blood was washed off but it felt permanently stuck to my skin. But it did not deter me. This was what I had grown into, how could I stop now?
I broke away from Jiyuutori, several months after my 21st birthday. I skipped a few towns, as I’d been promised work elsewhere. Of course, not a normal job, but an underground and violent one.
Another gang, this one more serious than the last. It was called Owadachi and it was a small Yakuza based out of Osaka. They were far more experienced than I. But I was told I had potential and was trained under several higher ranking members. I was given formal training along with my lapdog work. The higher ups often, like my old gang, gave the gruntal work to lower people such as myself. They were very fond of watching us covered in blood, arrested, or killed, while they took the credit for our crimes amongst gang members. Not that it mattered, once you were found out, you were as good as dead no matter how you pleaded.
I was very much in the quiet back of it all for a long period of time. Building up my status from the depths of Owadachi’s ranks. I took in all I could, despite being younger, foolish, and bound to violence, I was intuitive. Taking up in my spare time, practice of the teaching they taught me. Although it was in no way traditional to Japanese culture. It seemed very much a fight for one's life, anything goes when it's a matter of gang affairs. It was difficult to move up in rank in Owadachi, often we waited for the older members to retire, or on rare occasions where we received a risky mission, we could prove ourselves.
I happened to experience one of these missions. One of our rival gangs had found our hideout. They were planning to burn it to the ground and anyone inside along with it. I caught a whiff of the fire from a mile off. Though I could not save the hideout, I warned Owadachi members of the incoming trouble. Our leader, Ryōsuke, or so his alias was, allowed me to pay witness to and join the revenge of Owadachi. The rival gang that burned our hideout was slaughtered. I was the carrier boy for the mission. It was dangerous territory, we were down several men and outnumbered quite a bit. We had underestimated our enemy. The night ended with the rival leader dead and a bullet in my leg. I took the bullet for Ryōsuke and in this earned my place higherup amongst the clan.
It was then I was awarded an alias of my choosing. I wanted to spite the past I had. I chose the name Toska. It represented me well, for its meaning was one who had great spiritual anguish. I thought it spoke to me, for I was not religious, but the spirit of religion had scared me causing such horrid feelings. Many years down the line, as I am now, I realize the irony in choosing such a name.
I found myself living in the ranks of Owadachi for almost twice as long as Jiyuutori. I committed many unspeakable acts while in the Yakuza. I remember each and every act of drawing the blood of another being. Some of these were rival gang members, while others were civilians who witnessed far too much. The wrong place at the wrong time one might say. I was stained in blood. I was littered with scars and various tattoos of hate and violence. Yet I believed I was free. That the spilled blood wouldn’t catch up to me, that it wouldn’t weigh me down in the years that followed. I recall perfectly the horrified, detailed faces of each and every man, woman, and yes, even child, I slaughtered. For what? Some glorified fake thrill. I felt alive in exchange for the real and certain death of other people. And to this day, I will never forgive the awful thoughts and actions that ran through me
I don’t quite understand how I was numb to it all. Perhaps because it was such a normal environment. To see your fellow members fall to their knees after being pierced by knives, katanas, and metal bullets. The oozing red that painted across my vision was just the same familiar view as the sky being blue. If something were in fact not red for more than a week, I thought it abnormal or odd. What sick and twisted things violence will do to one's mind. All without them realizing how it tore them apart and made them a monster.
So then. You listen to me speak these tales, wondering how I am here now, alive, at ease and happy. And maybe you will say I do not deserve peace. I should be haunted for what crimes I acted upon. And to some extent, I am. I hear their pleas everyday, but I do not wallow in what I cannot change any longer. For I realized long ago that only makes the voices grow stronger. And I will be the only person that has control over myself, spirit or otherwise.
You may also ask, if I am who I am now, how I escaped this perpetual cycle of violence, blood, and torment. Let me be clear, I didn't do it on my own. It would have been impossible. I was fortunate to have been in the right place at the right time, although I truly considered it the biggest misfortune of my life at the time.
I was five years deep into Yakuza life. I was decently ranked, given risky and well rewarding tasks. But I was overconfident and something had to knock me off my high horse. Knock me off whatever metaphorical drug I was on. It came on suddenly. I don’t remember all that much, as it was a black blur afterward. It was an agonizing feeling, the blade pressing through my back. Clean through. I knew in an instant it was over. It had to be. I heard behind me the wild laughter followed by the slam of my body, by a foot pressing down upon my back. They pulled the katana from my back and kicked me about as I bled out. It was near the outskirts of Osaka.
No one would hear me gasping for breath. As the blood oozed from my open wound. I was going to die. The group, which I came to find out were some rivals of Owadachi, left me there. They did not finish the job because they were sure I’d bleed out alone. A slow and painful death. An agonizing one. And they would have been right. I was guilty of doing the same thing to others. Now what an irony that was.
So as I scrambled across the pavement, taking what I assumed were my final breaths, I heard something from above me. Had the gods who I cursed finally decided it was time to drag me down to Yomi? Was I to be eaten alive and turned by the dark creatures of that world? For the first time, I prayed, I prayed that the gods might have mercy. I could not lift myself, but I looked upward, my gaze blurred. A figure. And I blacked out.
When my vision came back to me. I was in a hospital room. Which both scared me, as I knew the doctors and the police worked closely together, and relieved me. For I was alive, by what means I knew not. I rolled my eyes, trying to adjust to the blaring lights. When I noticed beside me, sat upon a stool, book in hand, there was a woman. She had a mound of freckles spotted over her face, hazel eyes, and these blond ginger curls that almost seemed to bounce in place. She wore a uniform, a kimono. I recognized it, but at the time I couldn’t tell from where.
When she realized I had awoken, she exclaimed she was relieved I was alright. She spoke rather fast, however a strong calm held over her. She seemed younger than myself by a few years, but no less wise, in fact even more so. When I inquired how I could be here, she said she heard a commotion from an alley. And she had found me at death's door. She had prayed the kami might keep me alive until she could make it to the hospital, and they had. Of course I should have been thankful at this moment, but I regarded her as a religious nutcase. To my suprise, at my sudden and sharp tongue spat directly in opposition of her beliefs, she only lent me a smile. Before going on to say with quick wits.
“And that thinking is what has left you bleeding in an alleyway. Luckily, it seems the kami has not quite forgotten you.” I scoffed at this. How rude I had proclaimed. I really was a hypocrite back then. But then she continued and this sort of speech she gave, I swear now was the direct word of a kami itself.
“They all start out as little boys. Who feel the world cannot touch them as long as they keep moving. You run and you play, but at one point you lose the fun of life. It becomes a chore and you either become depressed to it or you oppress it in your own mind. Locking it away, for it seems nothing but troublesome. As you grow the burden carries, Through every choice and every experience. It dictates you, it controls you. You are but a caged animal. But you were not locked by someone else but your own unwillingness to face the troublesome difficulties of life. Many develop hatred. It is far easier to blame someone else than yourself, no? So now you’ve blamed gods, who you don’t even believe in. If it was just imaginary then, why do you blame them now? Everything is alive and very much connected in this world. And if you die your body will foster new roots, if you are buried. Returning to the earth but your spirit, it must go somewhere yes?”
I interrupted her, as the inpatient person I was. “I do not believe in spirits. Or my own spirit! We are just minds controlling bodies. Now shut up! I don’t want to hear this nonsense. Let this weary patient rest.” And she laughed at me. And I furled my brows, I hadn’t seen anyone speak to me as she did. Not as if she were proclaiming betterment of me, but at the same instance calling upon my faults as my own doing. Despite being spiritual, she hadn’t crimed me for cursing the gods. But she continued.
“What I mean to say is, the gods have not forgotten you. As much as you’d like it to seem so. When I overlooked you I could tell you were desperately thinking something. Perhaps you believed your time had come. But I think it was more than that. People on the brink of death often call out to something. Someone. A god. Because what do they have left other than to think about what comes after? I cannot blame people of that sort, but it is rather ironic. I pray to a god you don’t believe in.” She saw how my eyes shifted, it revealed what she had said was directly related to me and she laughed once again. “You don’t know anything lady. You don’t know!”
“I have met many people like you. Especially in Osaka. I never said you were going to live an easy life. Or that what you’ve experienced was only your doing. But where you land now, was partly your environment, but mainly your choices. Did you not, at every instance, be allowed the choice of how to react? And now you are here. But maybe that is not such a bad thing. Someone needed to knock you down from whatever make believe justification you found in what you were doing.”
Make believe?! At the time I believed she was simply insane, I knew what it was I was supposed to be doing with my life. Hell she looked younger than I, what did she know of the world? Yet her words held a weight I could no longer ignore. I dared not show it, though I think in the end she caught on, that every inch of her words struck a blow to me. It was as if she’d cut through layers I had built up, putting my very core on open display. I felt weak. I felt vulnerable. “Just shut up already! You’re seeking nonsense.” My voice held a desperate tone and she kept carving away every inch.
“Most people hate a direct reflection of themselves. They loathe it because they had tried so very hard to forget it. To hide it away as if it were some weak old prisoner. You locked your true self in a cage my friend. You’ve sown the bars with silence. Your prisoner may never speak nor express the truth of who you are. But you’ve still got the key buried away, when will you finally unlock that prisoner and all the monsters of your past? Never? I dare say most don’t. But you almost died. People who die without addressing their thoughts will live an eternity wandering the world, wonderful what they did wrong. They try to fix it, but at the end of the day, you’re just a spirit amongst a world of human flesh. A most lonely journey with no end.”
Finally I had given in to letting her speak, I hadn’t the energy. If this had been any other day, especially after I found out she was interning at a Shinto monastery, I would have cut her tongue out. I’d done it before, at another shrine a few towns away. To a shinkan who often spoke in the town of the kami. I jumped him and with hatred I said “where is your kami now?” But this woman, I knew from that moment, was different from the shinkan. She was one of them and she wasn’t one of them. But I thought she would turn her back when she knew of all I had done.
So in a moment of pure anger and rage, without thinking, in a foolish manner I spewed of what I had done in my life. It was not detailed, but it was enough to get me arrested several times over. And to think I said this to someone who worked somewhat for the government. But she listened, a completely serious face present. And when I finally realized what I had just done, I brought my hands over my mouth. She did not comment or judge me at all. She simply said “are you happy now?” And I turned to her, and for the first time in a long time, I cried. A few single tears fell. And I quickly whipped them up, in fear of being made fun of.
She stood from her chair. I jumped slightly at this notion, and when she came closer I waited for the worst. A slap perhaps? But she did not. She wrapped her arms around me, in a hug. A genuine, kind hug. And I allowed it. This was when I realized I was not happy. And I had missed so many wonderful things in the environment I had found myself present in. It was not loving and kind, it was every man for himself. Yet she hugged me. And I turned, my eyes wide and she spoke softly. “I won’t say a word of what happened. But I would really like it if you'd come visit me at the monastery. There's something I’d like to show you.” And if it had been anyone else, I would have scoffed, if it had been any other moment I would have called it imaginary. But I could no longer ignore her. So I simply nodded my head, allowing the hug.
I was discharged from the hospital several days afterward. And I kept good to her request. I climbed the long pathway up to the Osaka monastery. It felt eeriness cover me, as if I was an outsider who did not belong. At the entrance of the monastery, a large torii gate was present. In a moment of surging through my childhood, I remembered you were meant to bow. I would not have done it ordinarily. But now as I came closer and closer I felt compelled to. I had never bowed my head to anyone but my superior. Nor could I shake that I felt obligated to bow to both Ryōsuke or the kami.
When I arrived at the main portion of the shrine, the ginger woman, who had told me her name was Hanae, waved me over. Beside her, a much younger, barely out of highschool, female. She wore a shy expression, hiding partly behind Hanae. The curls of her blond hair were rather pretty I thought. She did her best to attempt a smile at me. I had told Hanae my alias, so she addressed me “Toska! Welcome to the monastery. Thank you so much for coming.” She bowed, along with the blond haired girl behind her. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be doing, I scratched the back of my neck and bowed as well. Hanae turned to the blond haired girl and proclaimed! “This is my friend Hestia. She also interns here. Say hi!” Hestia looked me over, I was somewhat intimidating. But she stumbled out a “h-hey! It's nice to meet you Toska.” I chuckled slightly, returning the notion.
Hanae then proceeded, in a rather excited tone, to take a tour of the grounds, Hestia and I dragged along. I turned to her, covering my mouth slightly, whispering, so Hanae would not hear. “Is she always this passionate?” Hestia seemed to lend me a smile whispering back “every guest. It's exciting, but I don’t know how she keeps it up.” I laughed audibly and Hanae turned around. “Now what's so funny!” Both Hestia and I broke into a fit of cackles. Hanae shook her head, but continued. I didn’t listen for most of the tour. But when she stopped, in front of a large building, proclaiming “our dojo!” I turned, my entire being focused. It was a glorious sight. The ceilings were high, equipment layed out.
Upon entering I noticed two individuals, with some type of practice armor and a bamboo weapon, later I would learn it was called a Shinai, facing one another. They were in some sort of fighting match, they screamed loudly as they attempted to hit one another. And their presence in fighting almost scared me. They were strong and their confidence overwhelming. Hanae turned to me and explained that they were participating in a Kendo match. She said she hadn’t understood much about it, but it was a form of martial arts they often practiced. I was in awe. She knew it. She couldn’t drag my gaze away. I had fallen in love with it, I needed to know what it meant and how to do it. It was as if I were a kid again, I was 26. I wasn’t a kid in a candy store. But I truly imagined it that way.
When the tour had concluded, she invited me to what she called a tea house, for some tea. Although she did not make it, another, more well dressed woman did. Who she said was one of the mikos who worked there. While Hanae conversed with her, I turned to Hestia for a bit of small talk. She seemed passionate like Hanae, though slightly less of a presence. Which calmed me quite a bit. Hestia spoke of what Hanae was so passionate about, what this place was. A shrine for shintoism. And I told her I knew, I’d been taught when I was younger. But she asked if I had ever been to a shrine, which I said that I had never in my life. She told me then, I did not know the full extent of how very unique it was. And I shrugged but let her continue.
In the months that followed, I came to that Osaka shrine often. I found refuge from the difficulties in the presence of new friends. Owadachi called me several times. And I went back many times more. But one day, Hanae asked if I truly was serious about freeing myself. And I turned to her and said, if it was possible I would have done anything. No one was around, so she spoke freely. “Then. Why don’t you join us?” My eyes widened at the thought. It was not as simple as leaving a Yakuza. Of course Hanae did not know this. From a life of fight to a life of standing still would surely be a harsh transition. But I did not want to die. I had not cared about whether I lived or died for many years, but now I was inspired to try. So I shook her hand. I was interviewed, they allowed me a place as an intern. Hanae made sure of it.
It was a lucky thing that the Owadachi members were also not religious. They would not dare enter a shrine. So they never did find me up there. The interns were allowed to live there. They had a few empty rooms we could share. Although most of the interns, besides that of Hestia and Hanae, loathed me. They thought me too unrefined, too ignorant, or too blunt. Many sneered at me behind my back. Little did they know, if I had not resigned from Owadachi, that I would have slit their throats for such talk. And while yes, I still thought those thoughts I did not vocalize it. For I truly had nowhere else if they took my role away.
Slowly over the course of a few years, I had molded somewhat to shrine life. At one point I finally confronted the fact Toska was not my real name, it was in fact Yūrei, Yūrei Gushiken. Hestia and Hanae understood, at that point, they knew of everything I had done. Yet they had not cast me away. I knew then they were the only people who accepted me for myself at the time.
Now shaping to the shrine life certainly was not easier. It was the opposite of what I was used to. The constant moving, the fear of violence, had all but disappeared. Which many would think was a good thing and it was, but I was accustomed to it, it felt empty and lonely without those thoughts. But I found a way to keep myself busy. I trained once again under someone. A shinkan well versed in the martial arts, Mr. Narushima. We had our quarrels. I had once pushed him into one of the koi bonds while he was attempting to meditate. My poor friend Hestia took the fall for it. She really wasn’t the best at standing up for herself.
Mr. Narushima taught me much about discipline. Up to that point in my life, anything had gone, besides crossing my superiors. I had no manners, no morals, only a will to win and survive. He taught me much about my spirit, how it was the core to everything. At first I had ignored it, but overtime I started to agree. Even finding I confided in the thought often. He explained the most important aspect to martial arts was the soul, your essence, your Kei. As it was called in Kendo. I wanted to skip straight to the fighting portion, but he did not allow it. Mr. Narushima explained I must master the spirit portion if I ever hoped to win. As the ancient samurai of old had done. He taught me the origins of the samurai. Taught me how to manifest their presence in my own movements.
When he finally saw improvement in my behavior, I was awarded a chance to hold a shinai. Which I was grateful for. It took even longer to learn the stances and the proper way to hold the weapon. Beyond this training I also had duties to chores around the shrine. I luckily did not interact with visitors of the shrine much. I was glad for it, I did not particularly enjoy many people’s presence. Somehow, despite losing the thrill of violence, I had managed to stretch whatever wings I had been lacking. I was finally tasting freedom. For the first time, I’d taken a step that had not further thrown away a key. And it would be the best choice I ever made.
I remained at the shrine for two years, consequently the best two of any of my previous. Though I had at first been an outsider and in some ways was still the unconventional intern, I felt a place there. More of a belonging then I had when I was in either gang or at the child home. Mr. Narushima taught me much, by the time I was 28, I knew I had to go elsewhere in my journey. At that point Hanae had already left long ago, Hestia remained. It was once again one of the only times I cried. I hugged her tightly. But I promised I would not lose contact. We sent letters to one another and called on many occasions.
Now where did I go you may ask? Wherever the kami wanted to take me next. I felt a strong spiritual pull to go on. And at this time in my walk of shintoism, I believed in it to the fullest extent. I once spit on the religion I now served. Ironic in that sense, or maybe it was just the humor of the gods.
I took a tour of Japan, taking up odd jobs at various shrines and monasteries. It was an adventure. I enjoyed every bit of the new discoveries. It also allowed me to become better acquainted with people and Japanese culture. I learned quite a bit about Shintoism from various point of views and even more about the self I had imprisoned, as Hanae had said. I was in a prime, free feeling.
During this exploration I came across the story of the thunder, warrior and sword kami, Takemikazuchi. It had been told at a shrine I had merely been visiting. The story went that Izanagi, one of the kami that created Japan and other kami, had a sword, the Ame-no-o-habari. His wife, Izanami, passed in the birth of the fire kami, their son, Kagutsuchi. In an act of rage and grief he beheaded his child with the Ame-no-o-habari. From the blood that dripped off the blade, several sword gods were born. The most capable of them, Takemikazuchi. He was seen as a hero, who’s swordsmanship was unrivaled.
In one effort, he was sent to confront a kami known as Okuninushi. He was supposed to aid another kami in acquiring the territory. Takemikazuchi, impressively, balanced the sword, blade tip up, sitting atop the sharp point of the blade. This act intimidated Okuninushi and his oldest son, but did not phase the second son. He challenged a duel for the right to hold the land. The second son foolishly grabbed onto the arm of Takemikazuchi during the fight. In turn the arm was transformed from flesh, to ice, and then to the blade of a sword. In a moment of fear the son pulled back and Takemikazuchi took the sudden fear to reach forward, ripping the arm of the son clear off. This entire scene is the origin of a martial art known as Sumo wrestling. The land of Izumo was handed over. It was where the gateway to the underworld resided.
And so, after hearing this tale, it struck me as very inspiring and powerful. When I felt weak or in fear, I simply remembered the bravery of the sword god. This would be the first kami I found myself entirely worshiping. So much so, I received a tattoo of the Ame-no-o-habari sword. It was drawn across the entirety of my back, laid on a bed of sakaki flowers, which in Shintoism were seen as holy. This is the tattoo I am proud of possessing. Because it gives me great strength knowing that the symbol is with me, that I can rise to the occasion of any challenge.
The story also inspired me to seek out other forms of martial arts, more so in hand to hand combat. I thought of sumo but it did not fit me all that well. So over the course of my travels around Japan I acquired and practiced knowledge on two other forms, Shotokan and Shitō-ryū. Shotokan was very important to my form and self improvement in fighting. It heavily focused on toning your form, improving reaction time, reaching an automatic response, and defending oneself with only their body. The discipline at my foundation, that Mr. Narushima gave me, helped me very much. In some ways his teachings were very similar. I took up the habit of meditation to accompany the practice. So that my body and my mind would be prepared and in unison for each and every stance and practice. I learned the value of your spirit and mind through these techniques.
Shitō-ryū on the other hand, was a style born through karate techniques. It focused on the soft and hard movements of one's external and internal person. It built up your defense like Shotokan had. But in such cases it could easily be applied to carrying weapons. Which I found partnered with Kendo and other matches of weaponed martial arts well.
I found in all these things, a sense of person. Of who I was training to be, who I wanted to come out as at the end of this long journey. In the violence I had found rooted peace. No longer was I training to live but training to be alive. For the true joy in doing each practice was what I had longed for, for many years. Finally I had found a place in the world. In the traditions and the acceptance of the kami. When everyone had discarded me, I found the one I blamed for it all, had been there guiding me through each and every misfortune. It is only now I see how truly right Hanae was, in that the kami had not abandoned me but worked to bring me to a place of peace.
After I had found who I was, I knew the logical next step was to do the same for other lost people like how I had once been. I settled upon a small martial arts instruction facility. It was called Bushido-rei, meaning Samurai Spirit. They taught several disciplines including Kendo. I was hired after some evaluation and began my two year journey of becoming a martial arts instructor. There were many talented kids who came through those doors. Each and everyone different from the last but equally as passionate. I loved each kid like my own. The older ones had a special place in my heart, for many of them had the same gloomy lost eyes as I had when I ran away from the home. I wanted to inspire them, to be a positive guide for their ambitions. And so every day I worked hard and so did they. A mutual respect was strong between each of my students and me.
There is one kid, I shall never forget as long as I live, Kiyoku. She was hardly an adult, but still much younger than I, for then I was almost 31 while she was 19. She seemed weak in appearance and her strength was not there. But the mental fortitude she held rivaled that of the other students. She opened up to me about her family and the harsh life she endured. It broke my heart, I had been that kid. But I trained her as best I could. She wished to grow stronger so she could have control in her life and her situation. She did not believe in the kami. And I did not pressure her to. But as Hanae had done with me, I would slide soft reminders of them from time to time. And slowly she seemed more open to the idea.
Kioku took criticism very well, she inquired often that she was grateful for any opportunity of getting better. It made me proud as a teacher to see her growth, her mindset about life change and her overall becoming a better person. She had thanked me, said she owed everything to me for being who she was. But I simply shook my head and explained that she had made the choice, I had been a guide, but she had fought every difficulty and won. When she left Bushido-rei I was sad to see her go. But I knew it was for the best, she was to go onto a new step in her life. For the following year I continued to train students. It was then I realized my passion for guiding the lost souls. With the kami as my own guide, I sought to be the best I could, for myself and my students.
It was the beginning of this winter, I am now 32, when I received a call from Hanae. She, Hestia, and I had stayed in close contact. She had told me about her experiences, that she had come to be a miko at a wonderful monastery in Karakura. But she also expressed the difficulties, of the fear she felt and the constant knocking at death's door. She claimed to have had several experiences with dangerous spirits, that she had fought tirelessly against and won. But now she could not go on. Trapped in a cycle of despair. Watching as those around her danced in joy or those she felt close to left.
Hanae told me she wanted to see her family again, her father and brother, but feared leaving the monastery alone. It was then I had a strong sense to ask if I could take her place while she was away. I would protect it as if it were my own home, watch over those she cared for. Save her, as she had saved me in that alley all those years ago. It was set up in a matter of a few months. We spoke closely and I visited Karakura several times. When the day came for me to take her place, she gave me a journal. It was filled with all that she had come to know and experience of the spirits. It was for me to write in now. To document for her. She also gave me a straw hat with a blue ribbon. Which matched her own, which held a red ribbon. That hat was meant to be of good luck to me. I thanked her and saw her off. She went home by train most of the way.
And now as I tell this story to you, you realize we have come to the end. For I sit here now, in uniform. With that very sunhat and that very journal. I am as alive as I have ever been despite all that has hurt me. And now I want you to understand one last thing.
As I mentioned before, my riddle of locks and keys. I hope something has been answered. That even someone who may have been doomed to a fate, can defy it with a simple act of passion. It was far from easy but I made it out on the other side. I stand before you the best version of myself I believe I could ever have been. And despite the trials that face me in this upcoming time, there is nothing that can make me bend. No.
I have lived to see the edge of life and made it out with wings but no halo. The cage I built long ago stands in ruin, never will it house me. For I am too swift a flier, too strong a mind to allow such foolishness to take place. Oh no my dear friend, you will not see me in another prison again. If you are to leave with anything from my tale, let it be that you do not need the right place to spread your wings. Simply leave behind what you believed were unforgivable sins and realize the world does not stop for anyone. Not even you. Fly with it, or be caged. That is my final words to you.
You want to know who I am? Where I’ve been and who I’ve become? But that is not easy as a few simple words. And I know well, I have not recollected it in many years. But because I want you to realize, you hold your own lock and key for the shackles of life experience, I will tell you. Of all the upward battles I faced silently, dragging onward for something I believed I lacked. Yet it strikes me only now, I did have what I needed. But whether it was fear or ignorance, I did not simply unlock my binds sooner. As you are more than likely doing at present. What do my riddles of locks and keys, and prisons have to do with anything you may ask? Well you will in time understand what I am speaking of. Let us start at the beginning then, of my first appearance in this world.
Some may have called it a cruel fate indeed. They may have said that the path I walked soon after was fate and any other would have done the same. But I disagree, it was foolishness. Though, if it had been done any other way, I may have still walked blindly in this world.
My mother and father were cruel people. Who, I do not remember much of, other than what I read in a file on myself. I was stolen or maybe freed from their care before I was old enough to agree. Although I’m sure it was for the best, in the file it spoke of how I’d been beaten to a point of no recognition. This could have explained a number of behaviors I experienced. I remember vividly being punished for attacking one of the caregivers at the place I lived. The home for kids who had nowhere else to go.
It was a cold atmosphere, at least in my experience. Most of the children seemed hopeless, especially the older ones. The younger children held a strong resolve, a wild spirit. But that too faded with time. The winters were the worst of that home. They were deadly. We hadn’t a lick of heat in the place. We huddled together on several occasions so we wouldn’t gain frostbite. One of the smaller girls died of phenomena. Her room and whatever she had touched, stunk with sickness. The scent was vile. I stayed clear of it as best I could, but sickness spread easily in the home. It was well and truly a miracle I did not catch a case bad enough to parish. Yet the fear of it was enough to make it hell.
And they were terribly religious. They made us perform tasks dedicated to kami. It was tiresome and meaningless work to me at the time. For what kid enjoys labor for some “god” they cannot see nor touch. They spoke of how the kami guided our lives, but if that was true I thought, they must have hated me for sending me to that home. And so I in turn chose to hate them back. For they would get no grateful prayers or offering for dooming me to such a fate.
The only escape was to be fostered, taken away by some lonely people who filled the void with children. I didn’t see it as appealing at all. And no one wanted a rebellious little youngster who stuck his tongue out and spat at guests. Nor a boy who hadn’t the manners to say thank you or the behavior to sit still.
I was often alone, the other kids stayed clear of me. But in all honesty I dragged them down into my wild antics on several occasions. When I was 16, at that point I’d lived in the home for twelve years, I realized how tiresome the caretakers of the home had grown of me. And I knew my days were being counted, for I’d seen what happened. Once you outgrew the age they were required to keep you, they’d throw you into the streets like an unwanted dog. Which really is a cruel thing, it sets one up for a terrible life. Just because no one wanted the odd kid.
But I digress, I would not tolerate them getting the pleasure of booting me from the place. So I gained some side work in town. I lived in Kotohira, Japan, a small town you probably aren’t familiar with. I saved for months, money, hiding it under my pillow so the caretakers would not see. And one night, I designated it as my freedom. I took all the belongings under my name, of which there were very few, and I never turned back. I thought this was my freedom, away from my looming past, the cold and restricting treatment. But I had only stumbled into another cage.
For a while, I traveled. Sneaking aboard trains, as they took me from town to town. I had no destination, only the want to feel in a sense “alive.” And for a time I did, the wind rushing past me as I hung on the edge of the tracks. It gave me a thrill I had lacked my entire life. But that soon vanished when I had run dry of the things I needed to live. I had no money, no food, no way to keep myself afloat in the world. And this is where I became desperate, so desperate I was willing to do whatever it took.
Like a piece of candy dangling in front of my face, I shook the hand of a mere stranger. And just like that, at age 18, I was a part of what they called a gang. It was nowhere close to a yakuza. It was structured as a bunch of runaways such as myself and a few hopeless adults with nothing left. The gang was called Jiyuutori, meaning freedom bird. Still caged, it was an illusion. It was common for us to steal money. Pickpocketing the rich because they wouldn’t notice it missing. Did it make it any less wrong? Of course not. The rich giving to the poor is a nice thought, but not if it's unconsented.
I made my way up the line slowly, I was given more risky tasks by Jiyuutori higher ups. It had been gruntal work for the first year. A repetition of taking while others were distracted. Or being a direct distraction while a buddy did the taking in turn. I don’t remember much of the faces of the victims. At the time I was thrilled with the idea of fitting in, I did not consider the consequences. Nor would I for years afterward. I was a part of Jiyuutori for three years.
For most of the final year of my time there, I was just turning 20, I did mostly mug work. I would back innocents into allies, threaten their lives, though I knew I wouldn’t ever follow that notion through. I did this until they spilled the innards of their pockets and wallets. Once or twice I drew blood with the knife I used to make them fear me. And I swore my heart was beating faster than theirs. I felt a strong sickness afterward, the blood was washed off but it felt permanently stuck to my skin. But it did not deter me. This was what I had grown into, how could I stop now?
I broke away from Jiyuutori, several months after my 21st birthday. I skipped a few towns, as I’d been promised work elsewhere. Of course, not a normal job, but an underground and violent one.
Another gang, this one more serious than the last. It was called Owadachi and it was a small Yakuza based out of Osaka. They were far more experienced than I. But I was told I had potential and was trained under several higher ranking members. I was given formal training along with my lapdog work. The higher ups often, like my old gang, gave the gruntal work to lower people such as myself. They were very fond of watching us covered in blood, arrested, or killed, while they took the credit for our crimes amongst gang members. Not that it mattered, once you were found out, you were as good as dead no matter how you pleaded.
I was very much in the quiet back of it all for a long period of time. Building up my status from the depths of Owadachi’s ranks. I took in all I could, despite being younger, foolish, and bound to violence, I was intuitive. Taking up in my spare time, practice of the teaching they taught me. Although it was in no way traditional to Japanese culture. It seemed very much a fight for one's life, anything goes when it's a matter of gang affairs. It was difficult to move up in rank in Owadachi, often we waited for the older members to retire, or on rare occasions where we received a risky mission, we could prove ourselves.
I happened to experience one of these missions. One of our rival gangs had found our hideout. They were planning to burn it to the ground and anyone inside along with it. I caught a whiff of the fire from a mile off. Though I could not save the hideout, I warned Owadachi members of the incoming trouble. Our leader, Ryōsuke, or so his alias was, allowed me to pay witness to and join the revenge of Owadachi. The rival gang that burned our hideout was slaughtered. I was the carrier boy for the mission. It was dangerous territory, we were down several men and outnumbered quite a bit. We had underestimated our enemy. The night ended with the rival leader dead and a bullet in my leg. I took the bullet for Ryōsuke and in this earned my place higherup amongst the clan.
It was then I was awarded an alias of my choosing. I wanted to spite the past I had. I chose the name Toska. It represented me well, for its meaning was one who had great spiritual anguish. I thought it spoke to me, for I was not religious, but the spirit of religion had scared me causing such horrid feelings. Many years down the line, as I am now, I realize the irony in choosing such a name.
I found myself living in the ranks of Owadachi for almost twice as long as Jiyuutori. I committed many unspeakable acts while in the Yakuza. I remember each and every act of drawing the blood of another being. Some of these were rival gang members, while others were civilians who witnessed far too much. The wrong place at the wrong time one might say. I was stained in blood. I was littered with scars and various tattoos of hate and violence. Yet I believed I was free. That the spilled blood wouldn’t catch up to me, that it wouldn’t weigh me down in the years that followed. I recall perfectly the horrified, detailed faces of each and every man, woman, and yes, even child, I slaughtered. For what? Some glorified fake thrill. I felt alive in exchange for the real and certain death of other people. And to this day, I will never forgive the awful thoughts and actions that ran through me
I don’t quite understand how I was numb to it all. Perhaps because it was such a normal environment. To see your fellow members fall to their knees after being pierced by knives, katanas, and metal bullets. The oozing red that painted across my vision was just the same familiar view as the sky being blue. If something were in fact not red for more than a week, I thought it abnormal or odd. What sick and twisted things violence will do to one's mind. All without them realizing how it tore them apart and made them a monster.
So then. You listen to me speak these tales, wondering how I am here now, alive, at ease and happy. And maybe you will say I do not deserve peace. I should be haunted for what crimes I acted upon. And to some extent, I am. I hear their pleas everyday, but I do not wallow in what I cannot change any longer. For I realized long ago that only makes the voices grow stronger. And I will be the only person that has control over myself, spirit or otherwise.
You may also ask, if I am who I am now, how I escaped this perpetual cycle of violence, blood, and torment. Let me be clear, I didn't do it on my own. It would have been impossible. I was fortunate to have been in the right place at the right time, although I truly considered it the biggest misfortune of my life at the time.
I was five years deep into Yakuza life. I was decently ranked, given risky and well rewarding tasks. But I was overconfident and something had to knock me off my high horse. Knock me off whatever metaphorical drug I was on. It came on suddenly. I don’t remember all that much, as it was a black blur afterward. It was an agonizing feeling, the blade pressing through my back. Clean through. I knew in an instant it was over. It had to be. I heard behind me the wild laughter followed by the slam of my body, by a foot pressing down upon my back. They pulled the katana from my back and kicked me about as I bled out. It was near the outskirts of Osaka.
No one would hear me gasping for breath. As the blood oozed from my open wound. I was going to die. The group, which I came to find out were some rivals of Owadachi, left me there. They did not finish the job because they were sure I’d bleed out alone. A slow and painful death. An agonizing one. And they would have been right. I was guilty of doing the same thing to others. Now what an irony that was.
So as I scrambled across the pavement, taking what I assumed were my final breaths, I heard something from above me. Had the gods who I cursed finally decided it was time to drag me down to Yomi? Was I to be eaten alive and turned by the dark creatures of that world? For the first time, I prayed, I prayed that the gods might have mercy. I could not lift myself, but I looked upward, my gaze blurred. A figure. And I blacked out.
When my vision came back to me. I was in a hospital room. Which both scared me, as I knew the doctors and the police worked closely together, and relieved me. For I was alive, by what means I knew not. I rolled my eyes, trying to adjust to the blaring lights. When I noticed beside me, sat upon a stool, book in hand, there was a woman. She had a mound of freckles spotted over her face, hazel eyes, and these blond ginger curls that almost seemed to bounce in place. She wore a uniform, a kimono. I recognized it, but at the time I couldn’t tell from where.
When she realized I had awoken, she exclaimed she was relieved I was alright. She spoke rather fast, however a strong calm held over her. She seemed younger than myself by a few years, but no less wise, in fact even more so. When I inquired how I could be here, she said she heard a commotion from an alley. And she had found me at death's door. She had prayed the kami might keep me alive until she could make it to the hospital, and they had. Of course I should have been thankful at this moment, but I regarded her as a religious nutcase. To my suprise, at my sudden and sharp tongue spat directly in opposition of her beliefs, she only lent me a smile. Before going on to say with quick wits.
“And that thinking is what has left you bleeding in an alleyway. Luckily, it seems the kami has not quite forgotten you.” I scoffed at this. How rude I had proclaimed. I really was a hypocrite back then. But then she continued and this sort of speech she gave, I swear now was the direct word of a kami itself.
“They all start out as little boys. Who feel the world cannot touch them as long as they keep moving. You run and you play, but at one point you lose the fun of life. It becomes a chore and you either become depressed to it or you oppress it in your own mind. Locking it away, for it seems nothing but troublesome. As you grow the burden carries, Through every choice and every experience. It dictates you, it controls you. You are but a caged animal. But you were not locked by someone else but your own unwillingness to face the troublesome difficulties of life. Many develop hatred. It is far easier to blame someone else than yourself, no? So now you’ve blamed gods, who you don’t even believe in. If it was just imaginary then, why do you blame them now? Everything is alive and very much connected in this world. And if you die your body will foster new roots, if you are buried. Returning to the earth but your spirit, it must go somewhere yes?”
I interrupted her, as the inpatient person I was. “I do not believe in spirits. Or my own spirit! We are just minds controlling bodies. Now shut up! I don’t want to hear this nonsense. Let this weary patient rest.” And she laughed at me. And I furled my brows, I hadn’t seen anyone speak to me as she did. Not as if she were proclaiming betterment of me, but at the same instance calling upon my faults as my own doing. Despite being spiritual, she hadn’t crimed me for cursing the gods. But she continued.
“What I mean to say is, the gods have not forgotten you. As much as you’d like it to seem so. When I overlooked you I could tell you were desperately thinking something. Perhaps you believed your time had come. But I think it was more than that. People on the brink of death often call out to something. Someone. A god. Because what do they have left other than to think about what comes after? I cannot blame people of that sort, but it is rather ironic. I pray to a god you don’t believe in.” She saw how my eyes shifted, it revealed what she had said was directly related to me and she laughed once again. “You don’t know anything lady. You don’t know!”
“I have met many people like you. Especially in Osaka. I never said you were going to live an easy life. Or that what you’ve experienced was only your doing. But where you land now, was partly your environment, but mainly your choices. Did you not, at every instance, be allowed the choice of how to react? And now you are here. But maybe that is not such a bad thing. Someone needed to knock you down from whatever make believe justification you found in what you were doing.”
Make believe?! At the time I believed she was simply insane, I knew what it was I was supposed to be doing with my life. Hell she looked younger than I, what did she know of the world? Yet her words held a weight I could no longer ignore. I dared not show it, though I think in the end she caught on, that every inch of her words struck a blow to me. It was as if she’d cut through layers I had built up, putting my very core on open display. I felt weak. I felt vulnerable. “Just shut up already! You’re seeking nonsense.” My voice held a desperate tone and she kept carving away every inch.
“Most people hate a direct reflection of themselves. They loathe it because they had tried so very hard to forget it. To hide it away as if it were some weak old prisoner. You locked your true self in a cage my friend. You’ve sown the bars with silence. Your prisoner may never speak nor express the truth of who you are. But you’ve still got the key buried away, when will you finally unlock that prisoner and all the monsters of your past? Never? I dare say most don’t. But you almost died. People who die without addressing their thoughts will live an eternity wandering the world, wonderful what they did wrong. They try to fix it, but at the end of the day, you’re just a spirit amongst a world of human flesh. A most lonely journey with no end.”
Finally I had given in to letting her speak, I hadn’t the energy. If this had been any other day, especially after I found out she was interning at a Shinto monastery, I would have cut her tongue out. I’d done it before, at another shrine a few towns away. To a shinkan who often spoke in the town of the kami. I jumped him and with hatred I said “where is your kami now?” But this woman, I knew from that moment, was different from the shinkan. She was one of them and she wasn’t one of them. But I thought she would turn her back when she knew of all I had done.
So in a moment of pure anger and rage, without thinking, in a foolish manner I spewed of what I had done in my life. It was not detailed, but it was enough to get me arrested several times over. And to think I said this to someone who worked somewhat for the government. But she listened, a completely serious face present. And when I finally realized what I had just done, I brought my hands over my mouth. She did not comment or judge me at all. She simply said “are you happy now?” And I turned to her, and for the first time in a long time, I cried. A few single tears fell. And I quickly whipped them up, in fear of being made fun of.
She stood from her chair. I jumped slightly at this notion, and when she came closer I waited for the worst. A slap perhaps? But she did not. She wrapped her arms around me, in a hug. A genuine, kind hug. And I allowed it. This was when I realized I was not happy. And I had missed so many wonderful things in the environment I had found myself present in. It was not loving and kind, it was every man for himself. Yet she hugged me. And I turned, my eyes wide and she spoke softly. “I won’t say a word of what happened. But I would really like it if you'd come visit me at the monastery. There's something I’d like to show you.” And if it had been anyone else, I would have scoffed, if it had been any other moment I would have called it imaginary. But I could no longer ignore her. So I simply nodded my head, allowing the hug.
I was discharged from the hospital several days afterward. And I kept good to her request. I climbed the long pathway up to the Osaka monastery. It felt eeriness cover me, as if I was an outsider who did not belong. At the entrance of the monastery, a large torii gate was present. In a moment of surging through my childhood, I remembered you were meant to bow. I would not have done it ordinarily. But now as I came closer and closer I felt compelled to. I had never bowed my head to anyone but my superior. Nor could I shake that I felt obligated to bow to both Ryōsuke or the kami.
When I arrived at the main portion of the shrine, the ginger woman, who had told me her name was Hanae, waved me over. Beside her, a much younger, barely out of highschool, female. She wore a shy expression, hiding partly behind Hanae. The curls of her blond hair were rather pretty I thought. She did her best to attempt a smile at me. I had told Hanae my alias, so she addressed me “Toska! Welcome to the monastery. Thank you so much for coming.” She bowed, along with the blond haired girl behind her. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be doing, I scratched the back of my neck and bowed as well. Hanae turned to the blond haired girl and proclaimed! “This is my friend Hestia. She also interns here. Say hi!” Hestia looked me over, I was somewhat intimidating. But she stumbled out a “h-hey! It's nice to meet you Toska.” I chuckled slightly, returning the notion.
Hanae then proceeded, in a rather excited tone, to take a tour of the grounds, Hestia and I dragged along. I turned to her, covering my mouth slightly, whispering, so Hanae would not hear. “Is she always this passionate?” Hestia seemed to lend me a smile whispering back “every guest. It's exciting, but I don’t know how she keeps it up.” I laughed audibly and Hanae turned around. “Now what's so funny!” Both Hestia and I broke into a fit of cackles. Hanae shook her head, but continued. I didn’t listen for most of the tour. But when she stopped, in front of a large building, proclaiming “our dojo!” I turned, my entire being focused. It was a glorious sight. The ceilings were high, equipment layed out.
Upon entering I noticed two individuals, with some type of practice armor and a bamboo weapon, later I would learn it was called a Shinai, facing one another. They were in some sort of fighting match, they screamed loudly as they attempted to hit one another. And their presence in fighting almost scared me. They were strong and their confidence overwhelming. Hanae turned to me and explained that they were participating in a Kendo match. She said she hadn’t understood much about it, but it was a form of martial arts they often practiced. I was in awe. She knew it. She couldn’t drag my gaze away. I had fallen in love with it, I needed to know what it meant and how to do it. It was as if I were a kid again, I was 26. I wasn’t a kid in a candy store. But I truly imagined it that way.
When the tour had concluded, she invited me to what she called a tea house, for some tea. Although she did not make it, another, more well dressed woman did. Who she said was one of the mikos who worked there. While Hanae conversed with her, I turned to Hestia for a bit of small talk. She seemed passionate like Hanae, though slightly less of a presence. Which calmed me quite a bit. Hestia spoke of what Hanae was so passionate about, what this place was. A shrine for shintoism. And I told her I knew, I’d been taught when I was younger. But she asked if I had ever been to a shrine, which I said that I had never in my life. She told me then, I did not know the full extent of how very unique it was. And I shrugged but let her continue.
In the months that followed, I came to that Osaka shrine often. I found refuge from the difficulties in the presence of new friends. Owadachi called me several times. And I went back many times more. But one day, Hanae asked if I truly was serious about freeing myself. And I turned to her and said, if it was possible I would have done anything. No one was around, so she spoke freely. “Then. Why don’t you join us?” My eyes widened at the thought. It was not as simple as leaving a Yakuza. Of course Hanae did not know this. From a life of fight to a life of standing still would surely be a harsh transition. But I did not want to die. I had not cared about whether I lived or died for many years, but now I was inspired to try. So I shook her hand. I was interviewed, they allowed me a place as an intern. Hanae made sure of it.
It was a lucky thing that the Owadachi members were also not religious. They would not dare enter a shrine. So they never did find me up there. The interns were allowed to live there. They had a few empty rooms we could share. Although most of the interns, besides that of Hestia and Hanae, loathed me. They thought me too unrefined, too ignorant, or too blunt. Many sneered at me behind my back. Little did they know, if I had not resigned from Owadachi, that I would have slit their throats for such talk. And while yes, I still thought those thoughts I did not vocalize it. For I truly had nowhere else if they took my role away.
Slowly over the course of a few years, I had molded somewhat to shrine life. At one point I finally confronted the fact Toska was not my real name, it was in fact Yūrei, Yūrei Gushiken. Hestia and Hanae understood, at that point, they knew of everything I had done. Yet they had not cast me away. I knew then they were the only people who accepted me for myself at the time.
Now shaping to the shrine life certainly was not easier. It was the opposite of what I was used to. The constant moving, the fear of violence, had all but disappeared. Which many would think was a good thing and it was, but I was accustomed to it, it felt empty and lonely without those thoughts. But I found a way to keep myself busy. I trained once again under someone. A shinkan well versed in the martial arts, Mr. Narushima. We had our quarrels. I had once pushed him into one of the koi bonds while he was attempting to meditate. My poor friend Hestia took the fall for it. She really wasn’t the best at standing up for herself.
Mr. Narushima taught me much about discipline. Up to that point in my life, anything had gone, besides crossing my superiors. I had no manners, no morals, only a will to win and survive. He taught me much about my spirit, how it was the core to everything. At first I had ignored it, but overtime I started to agree. Even finding I confided in the thought often. He explained the most important aspect to martial arts was the soul, your essence, your Kei. As it was called in Kendo. I wanted to skip straight to the fighting portion, but he did not allow it. Mr. Narushima explained I must master the spirit portion if I ever hoped to win. As the ancient samurai of old had done. He taught me the origins of the samurai. Taught me how to manifest their presence in my own movements.
When he finally saw improvement in my behavior, I was awarded a chance to hold a shinai. Which I was grateful for. It took even longer to learn the stances and the proper way to hold the weapon. Beyond this training I also had duties to chores around the shrine. I luckily did not interact with visitors of the shrine much. I was glad for it, I did not particularly enjoy many people’s presence. Somehow, despite losing the thrill of violence, I had managed to stretch whatever wings I had been lacking. I was finally tasting freedom. For the first time, I’d taken a step that had not further thrown away a key. And it would be the best choice I ever made.
I remained at the shrine for two years, consequently the best two of any of my previous. Though I had at first been an outsider and in some ways was still the unconventional intern, I felt a place there. More of a belonging then I had when I was in either gang or at the child home. Mr. Narushima taught me much, by the time I was 28, I knew I had to go elsewhere in my journey. At that point Hanae had already left long ago, Hestia remained. It was once again one of the only times I cried. I hugged her tightly. But I promised I would not lose contact. We sent letters to one another and called on many occasions.
Now where did I go you may ask? Wherever the kami wanted to take me next. I felt a strong spiritual pull to go on. And at this time in my walk of shintoism, I believed in it to the fullest extent. I once spit on the religion I now served. Ironic in that sense, or maybe it was just the humor of the gods.
I took a tour of Japan, taking up odd jobs at various shrines and monasteries. It was an adventure. I enjoyed every bit of the new discoveries. It also allowed me to become better acquainted with people and Japanese culture. I learned quite a bit about Shintoism from various point of views and even more about the self I had imprisoned, as Hanae had said. I was in a prime, free feeling.
During this exploration I came across the story of the thunder, warrior and sword kami, Takemikazuchi. It had been told at a shrine I had merely been visiting. The story went that Izanagi, one of the kami that created Japan and other kami, had a sword, the Ame-no-o-habari. His wife, Izanami, passed in the birth of the fire kami, their son, Kagutsuchi. In an act of rage and grief he beheaded his child with the Ame-no-o-habari. From the blood that dripped off the blade, several sword gods were born. The most capable of them, Takemikazuchi. He was seen as a hero, who’s swordsmanship was unrivaled.
In one effort, he was sent to confront a kami known as Okuninushi. He was supposed to aid another kami in acquiring the territory. Takemikazuchi, impressively, balanced the sword, blade tip up, sitting atop the sharp point of the blade. This act intimidated Okuninushi and his oldest son, but did not phase the second son. He challenged a duel for the right to hold the land. The second son foolishly grabbed onto the arm of Takemikazuchi during the fight. In turn the arm was transformed from flesh, to ice, and then to the blade of a sword. In a moment of fear the son pulled back and Takemikazuchi took the sudden fear to reach forward, ripping the arm of the son clear off. This entire scene is the origin of a martial art known as Sumo wrestling. The land of Izumo was handed over. It was where the gateway to the underworld resided.
And so, after hearing this tale, it struck me as very inspiring and powerful. When I felt weak or in fear, I simply remembered the bravery of the sword god. This would be the first kami I found myself entirely worshiping. So much so, I received a tattoo of the Ame-no-o-habari sword. It was drawn across the entirety of my back, laid on a bed of sakaki flowers, which in Shintoism were seen as holy. This is the tattoo I am proud of possessing. Because it gives me great strength knowing that the symbol is with me, that I can rise to the occasion of any challenge.
The story also inspired me to seek out other forms of martial arts, more so in hand to hand combat. I thought of sumo but it did not fit me all that well. So over the course of my travels around Japan I acquired and practiced knowledge on two other forms, Shotokan and Shitō-ryū. Shotokan was very important to my form and self improvement in fighting. It heavily focused on toning your form, improving reaction time, reaching an automatic response, and defending oneself with only their body. The discipline at my foundation, that Mr. Narushima gave me, helped me very much. In some ways his teachings were very similar. I took up the habit of meditation to accompany the practice. So that my body and my mind would be prepared and in unison for each and every stance and practice. I learned the value of your spirit and mind through these techniques.
Shitō-ryū on the other hand, was a style born through karate techniques. It focused on the soft and hard movements of one's external and internal person. It built up your defense like Shotokan had. But in such cases it could easily be applied to carrying weapons. Which I found partnered with Kendo and other matches of weaponed martial arts well.
I found in all these things, a sense of person. Of who I was training to be, who I wanted to come out as at the end of this long journey. In the violence I had found rooted peace. No longer was I training to live but training to be alive. For the true joy in doing each practice was what I had longed for, for many years. Finally I had found a place in the world. In the traditions and the acceptance of the kami. When everyone had discarded me, I found the one I blamed for it all, had been there guiding me through each and every misfortune. It is only now I see how truly right Hanae was, in that the kami had not abandoned me but worked to bring me to a place of peace.
After I had found who I was, I knew the logical next step was to do the same for other lost people like how I had once been. I settled upon a small martial arts instruction facility. It was called Bushido-rei, meaning Samurai Spirit. They taught several disciplines including Kendo. I was hired after some evaluation and began my two year journey of becoming a martial arts instructor. There were many talented kids who came through those doors. Each and everyone different from the last but equally as passionate. I loved each kid like my own. The older ones had a special place in my heart, for many of them had the same gloomy lost eyes as I had when I ran away from the home. I wanted to inspire them, to be a positive guide for their ambitions. And so every day I worked hard and so did they. A mutual respect was strong between each of my students and me.
There is one kid, I shall never forget as long as I live, Kiyoku. She was hardly an adult, but still much younger than I, for then I was almost 31 while she was 19. She seemed weak in appearance and her strength was not there. But the mental fortitude she held rivaled that of the other students. She opened up to me about her family and the harsh life she endured. It broke my heart, I had been that kid. But I trained her as best I could. She wished to grow stronger so she could have control in her life and her situation. She did not believe in the kami. And I did not pressure her to. But as Hanae had done with me, I would slide soft reminders of them from time to time. And slowly she seemed more open to the idea.
Kioku took criticism very well, she inquired often that she was grateful for any opportunity of getting better. It made me proud as a teacher to see her growth, her mindset about life change and her overall becoming a better person. She had thanked me, said she owed everything to me for being who she was. But I simply shook my head and explained that she had made the choice, I had been a guide, but she had fought every difficulty and won. When she left Bushido-rei I was sad to see her go. But I knew it was for the best, she was to go onto a new step in her life. For the following year I continued to train students. It was then I realized my passion for guiding the lost souls. With the kami as my own guide, I sought to be the best I could, for myself and my students.
It was the beginning of this winter, I am now 32, when I received a call from Hanae. She, Hestia, and I had stayed in close contact. She had told me about her experiences, that she had come to be a miko at a wonderful monastery in Karakura. But she also expressed the difficulties, of the fear she felt and the constant knocking at death's door. She claimed to have had several experiences with dangerous spirits, that she had fought tirelessly against and won. But now she could not go on. Trapped in a cycle of despair. Watching as those around her danced in joy or those she felt close to left.
Hanae told me she wanted to see her family again, her father and brother, but feared leaving the monastery alone. It was then I had a strong sense to ask if I could take her place while she was away. I would protect it as if it were my own home, watch over those she cared for. Save her, as she had saved me in that alley all those years ago. It was set up in a matter of a few months. We spoke closely and I visited Karakura several times. When the day came for me to take her place, she gave me a journal. It was filled with all that she had come to know and experience of the spirits. It was for me to write in now. To document for her. She also gave me a straw hat with a blue ribbon. Which matched her own, which held a red ribbon. That hat was meant to be of good luck to me. I thanked her and saw her off. She went home by train most of the way.
And now as I tell this story to you, you realize we have come to the end. For I sit here now, in uniform. With that very sunhat and that very journal. I am as alive as I have ever been despite all that has hurt me. And now I want you to understand one last thing.
As I mentioned before, my riddle of locks and keys. I hope something has been answered. That even someone who may have been doomed to a fate, can defy it with a simple act of passion. It was far from easy but I made it out on the other side. I stand before you the best version of myself I believe I could ever have been. And despite the trials that face me in this upcoming time, there is nothing that can make me bend. No.
I have lived to see the edge of life and made it out with wings but no halo. The cage I built long ago stands in ruin, never will it house me. For I am too swift a flier, too strong a mind to allow such foolishness to take place. Oh no my dear friend, you will not see me in another prison again. If you are to leave with anything from my tale, let it be that you do not need the right place to spread your wings. Simply leave behind what you believed were unforgivable sins and realize the world does not stop for anyone. Not even you. Fly with it, or be caged. That is my final words to you.
[CREDITS TO CANVA]
Last edited:
