Tengu by John Donohue Page B

it was amazing how dim the forest looked. The yellow of small cooking fires seemed more vivid and the tips of cheroots glowed red in the glowing gloom. The men of the village smoked and squatted, speaking softly and quickly to one another. It made it difficult to hear. The women busied themselves with cooking and distracting the children, but Hatsue was drawn to the circle of men. She drifted closer and they stopped suddenly, all eyes rising to look at her. The wise brown eyes of the datu were cold and remote. A woman came and gently tugged Hatsue away from the council.
    The air began to blue with the approach of evening. Fires were stoked into life and the evening rice prepared. Young men continued to filter in and out of the village, conferring with the headman. From their expressions, it was obvious that the search for intruders had yielded nothing. What was more disturbing, Hatsue wondered, the idea that a stranger was present, or that he could not be found?
    She did not ask the question, knowing that in the quiet time after the evening meal, there would be more talk. And the women would tell her what they had learned. Part of Hatsue bridled at this. She was a product of a different place, and had been encouraged to find things out for herself. It was one of the freedoms that she treasured about her life at Harvard, and one of the things she feared losing on her return to Japan. So she slipped out of her hut and into the forest, drifting quietly through the brush, alive to the possibility that she could succeed where the men could not.
    Hatsue had learned to move along the wooded slopes, having been taught with eager glee by the children. She could recognize the worn pathways of wild pigs and avoid them for safer trails. She no longer froze in fear as a snake coiled its way down a nearby tree. She could weave through the trees, the noise of her passing nothing but a part of the general rustling and snapping of the forest.
    At first, the mountain forest had been a disorienting place. But it offered a type of privacy she never had in the paper wall culture of Japan and she found that she liked the isolation. The pressure of constantly being on display, of being observed by the villagers was wearing. It never occurred to her that they might feel the same way. But over time, Hatsue had made it a habit to walk alone in the forest as the sunlight waned and the space under the leafy canopy grew darker and the air grew cool. It was her time alone, and something she came to treasure. It was one more odd habit that marked her as different from the people she studied. For them, the coming night awoke the malevolent spirits of the forest. They clung to the safe circle of firelight with a deep and feral appreciation of nature’s peril. Hatsue, whose world was both more sophisticated and less perceptive, was immune to that wisdom.
    Now, she moved quietly, eyes roaming across the foliage, listening for the telltale noise of an intruder. She inched slowly toward a spot where a rockfall had carved a scar in the mountainside: it would provide an excellent vantage point.
    The small hand grabbed at her and the surprised rush of Hatsue’s breath was smothered in the humid air. One of the village children squatted under a bush, face taut with tension. The boy pulled Hatsue down next to him. She sank to his level and looked at him questioningly. The boy held up a hand in warning.
    “Moros,” he whispered, and turned his head to face up the rock slope.
    High above, their faces streaked with camouflage paint, small wiry men with automatic weapons were quietly watching the trail that led to the village. Hatsue could feel her heart thudding in her throat as she crouched down in the brush. The child next to her unconsciously moved closer, seeking comfort. With a nightmare inevitability, the men with guns began to pick their way downslope toward the trail to the village. She felt a jet of alarm. Most contact with outsiders like this was