The Day of Thunder

[Otomo Akutou]

Gnarling fingers traced over gnarled wood, turning a chunk of it over and over. A breath indrawn and held for a heartbeat, two, three, and eyes closed, seeing what shape had been placed within, how to release it, showing as the breath is released at last.

Eyes snap open.

That shape has shown itself before, years ago, when five descended to retrieve a sixth. It was off in the distance, beyond the beacon, beyond the barrier, a fleeting glimpse in the choking miasmatic darkness.

It has not been the only one.

Too often, now, what blades release from the wood have been echoes of that long-ago day, shades of what once was and what still lingers seething in southern lands. Or else it is from further back, more personal horror.

That death dealt out again and again and again.

A familiar comfort comes, hands that have their own calluses and scars, arms that have held the dying, lips that whispered too many too-soon goodbyes. It is a warm wind that has blown from the sister’s shores to these strange ones.

It should always be enough.

Another comfort comes as the wind drifts away, long hoped-for youth that learns the lessons taught anew that before were taught in pain and peril. The years of peace have allowed her to grow in ways that never would have happened before.

It is for such things that the old oaths were sworn.

Someone else sets down a stone with a sullen thud. Something is coming, says the voice that has been a guide before, and nine must gather to meet it, lest all falter and fail and fall into darkness that will last beyond what any now can see.

A gnarled hand rises, shakes slightly.

The wood is rotting, and the tree will soon fall, even now shedding its leaves out of season, and nothing built from it now will stand long. But its fruit has been good, and there is yet more of it to take, sweet from the branch and with seeds that, planted, may yet grow strong and true.