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When Komachi wakes up, she notices a pale hand reaching up and over the side of her boat.
Rivulets drip between white knuckles and stream down a rather lanky forearm, more bone than flesh, leading to a soggy sleeve billowing in the river like a jellyfish. The rest of it belongs to a rather unremarkable girl with sea-green eyes and dark hair plastered flat to her forehead. The girl grins at Komachi, showing off a little sliver of teeth as pale as her fingers. If Komachi didn’t know any better, she would swear she just caught a whiff of brine— not the brine of pickled radishes, but the distinct odor of the sea. Impossible. There is no sea in Gensokyo, and the Sanzu River is all freshwater despite some of its saltwater inhabitants.
She lifts her head and blearily looks around, as if to make sure she’s still not dreaming. A thin fog caresses the surface of the river. The higanbana growing along the shore rustle against a ghostly breeze, their bright colors standing stark against the muted grays of the Shigan.
The only thing out of the ordinary is that girl clinging to her boat.
“Hey. Can I borrow a ladle?”
Komachi closes her eyes again and settles back against the stern.
“… Hey.”
Nope. Nope.
“Hey,” the voice insistently repeats.
The specter raps the back of her fist against the hull in three consecutive knocks. Komachi’s eyes snap open. Still caught in the bittersweet aftermath of a nap so rudely denied, she pushes herself to sit upright on the bench, yawning and rubbing away sleep grit.
“What? Did you need something?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself. Can I borrow a ladle or not?”
Komachi pauses. There was an old story she heard from another shinigami a very long time ago, of a phantom chained to the sea that would make peculiar requests to anyone unlucky enough to cross its domain… shit, she completely forgot what the correct answer to the phantom’s question was supposed to be. Komachi stares back into those unblinking eyes as she tries to think through her post-nap delirium. If she gives this thing a ladle, it’ll no doubt sink her boat. But if she denies it… uh. It’d get pissed off. Right? Then it’d sink her boat anyway.
From what she remembered of her fellow shinigami’s story, there was very rarely a good ending no matter the course of action taken.
Wait. What the hell is a ship phantom doing in the Sanzu River, in the first place?! She cautiously reaches for her scythe.
“I don’t have any ladles with me. Sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Komachi says, jabbing at the girl’s knuckles with the end of the scythe’s wooden haft. “I can tell it’s not your time to cross the river.”
“Ow.” The phantom withdraws her hand. “Alright, alright. Yeah, I get it. A shinigami has no reason to carry a ladle around while they’re on the job. I wasn’t looking for a free ferry ride or anything, either… ahh, times really have changed, haven’t they? You know, even humans figured they could stop me by giving me a ladle with no bottom. I’m nothing if not adaptable, though— that’s why I took the liberty of bringing my own ladle!”
“—Huh?”
Komachi only has split second to process what was just said before she finds herself knee-deep in sloshing saltwater.
As much as Komachi would complain about that old dinghy, she can’t exactly deny that she’d come to have some measure of sentimental attachment to her beloved Titanic. Sure, it rocked a bit too much. And sure, it barely had enough space for her to stretch out her legs. The wood was soft and wormy and the bench was held together by nails that poked her backside, but it was her boat and it had carried countless souls to Higan under her command.
Now, after centuries of service, it had found its final resting place beneath the waters of the Sanzu River, welcomed to the afterlife by plesiosaurs and coelacanths.
“I’m going to kill you—“
“I’m already dead, you dummy!”
Getting to the riverbank was only a matter of flailing around before remembering that she could just close the distance, but now her clothes are sodden and weighing her down. Komachi slips on mud and lands face-first in a patch of red spider lilies when she tries to lunge for the phantom.
“Then,“ Komachi says, propping herself up on her elbows and spitting out soil and crushed flowers, “you’ll be sent straight to Hell!”
The phantom folds her arms behind her head and floats in place, like she’s lounging on an invisible futon. Her carefree attitude would have endeared herself to Komachi in any other circumstance. But since she had just capsized the Titanic… well.
“Been there, done that. Well, technically it was Former Hell, but it’s about the same, isn’t it? Anyway, whether or not I end up in Hell is hardly up to you. You’re just a shinigami. I know how these things work.”
“That’s right. I’m a shinigami, you fool! Don’t you realize you’re directly interfering with the passage of spirits to Higan?!”
She shrugs. “That’s not my problem. Besides, when I found you, it looked like you weren’t doing any sort of spirit-ferrying.”
Defeated, Komachi groans and flops over on her back, allowing her limbs to fall askew around herself like a rag doll.
“My boat…”
“Hope you’re not expecting an apology out of me.”
What an obnoxious ghost. Komachi shields her eyes from the hazy sun with one arm. Maybe if she leaves out the part where she’d been napping in the report, the administration would take some pity on her and issue her a new vessel without penalty. The job is supposed to be easy, if not dreadfully tedious. No one should have expected her to know how to deal with an unexpected ship phantom. Surely that would earn her a few points of sympathy, if not the fact that she could have drowned.
Not that drowning is an actual danger to a shinigami such as herself, but still.
“… What are you even doing here?” Komachi asks, recalling her initial confusion that had been swept up in the chaos of her boat sinking. She slightly lowers her arm to catch a glimpse of the phantom floating in circles around her, like a frisky otter. “You’re a…”
“I’m a funayūrei,” she says, flashing that sliver of teeth again. “And you’re right. The Sanzu River is hardly my domain, nor is it my time to receive judgment from the Yama. Gensokyo is full of nothing but strange phenomena, is it not?”
“You’re saying you came from the outside?”
“Sooort of,” she drawls, seamlessly switching back to that child-like playfulness. “I guess I’m just a landlocked ship phantom, either way. How funny! Oh, but pardon my bad manners. The name’s Murasa.”
“Bad manners?!” Komachi sputters indignantly. “You sank my boat!”
“Yeah, and? I already said I’m not apologizing for that.”
“But you’d apologize for forgetting to tell me your name?!”
“Of course!”
Sometimes, youkai make it way too easy to be disliked. Murasa continues to float around her, grinning. Her clothes had already dried off and now Komachi sees that she’s wearing a seifuku from the outside world, rather than the traditional burial kimono she’d initially mistaken all that white cloth for.
She recalls what Murasa had said immediately before flooding her boat; she called herself adaptable. Komachi scoffs aloud. At a glance, she doesn’t even look like a ghost. Murasa isn’t even accompanied by any hitodama. An intentional disguise, or a side effect of that “adaptability”?
“Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?” Murasa asks.
”Komachi.”
But she wasn’t the one who said that. Komachi feels dread dropping to the pit of her stomach at the sound of that familiar voice, mustering what little dignity she has left to scramble up to her feet. Her back is covered in mud and her clothes cling to her skin like film. Forget about her dignity, then.
Eiki peers at her, frowning. She must be out and about since there hadn’t been many souls crossing into Higan today— not to do with anything Komachi had (or hadn’t) been doing, though. Or it’s just a spontaneous check-in, coinciding with one of Eiki’s rare work breaks. How lucky for her.
“L-Lady Eiki!” Komachi snaps at the waist for a quick bow, unintentionally flinging some water at Eiki as red locks of hair whip over her forehead. “I’m not slacking off! I was attacked out of nowhere and my boat sank and you know I can’t exactly do any ferrying without a ferry—“
Eiki looks up at Murasa, then to Komachi and her soggy dress. “I believe you.”
“… Really?” Komachi asks, clearly not used to such a statement coming from her boss’s mouth.
“I’ll address your boat problem in a moment. For now, I’d like to have a word with the funayūrei and for you to accompany us, Komachi.”
“Not like I have anywhere else to go right now…”
“Splendid.” Eiki smiles, and gestures to Murasa. “Will you walk with us, Captain Murasa?”
Murasa’s feet finally touch down on solid land. She doesn’t seem shocked at all that Eiki already seems to know her. She salutes, and it’s difficult to tell if it’s a genuine salute or a mocking gesture. “Aye aye!”
A part of Komachi had been hoping that Murasa would receive some divine punishment in the form of one of Eiki’s infamous lectures. Of course, Murasa does deserve worse (in her opinion, because the Titanic was the bravest little boat to ever be), but it’d at least be somewhat cathartic to see her at the receiving end of Eiki’s tongue-lashing.
But none of that happens. For the first few minutes they simply walk along the river, Murasa at Eiki’s side and Komachi lagging behind a few paces. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think that Eiki brought them along just to enjoy the scenery. It isn’t until they reach the Sai no Kawara that Eiki speaks up, her voice almost muted by the oppressive mist weaving between stone cairns left by the stillborns.
“How have you been settling into Gensokyo, Captain?”
Komachi blinks. Smalltalk? Where’s the lecturing?!
Murasa hums and folds her arms behind her head, pondering the question. “Being here is better than our situation underground, that’s for sure. It’s only been a couple weeks, but I think I already miss sailing the Palanquin… ah, well, we had to weigh anchor eventually. The tengu probably would’ve made a fuss if we kept flying around the mountain.”
“I’m a bit surprised that a youkai of your nature has been able to adapt so well, considering the circumstances.”
“I did tell your subordinate there that I’m flexible.” Murasa glances over her shoulder and tosses a wink at Komachi. Komachi resists the urge to stick her tongue out. “Besides, isn’t that Gensokyo’s whole deal? That’s what the folks from the Moriya Shrine told us, when they helped build our temple.”
“The bamboo that bends is stronger than the oak that resists,” Eiki muses. “It’s rare to find spirits that have persisted as long as you have. And yet I can’t help but wonder…”
“About my capsized boat?” Komachi calls out.
Eiki ignores her. “Is your soul no more stagnant than it once was before your imprisonment? You say you have changed, but I would argue that that may not necessarily be what you need, as a funayūrei. What youkai need are intrinsically tied to the stories they inspire among humans. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Murasa is quiet for a moment. They have to walk slowly around here to avoid knocking over the stone cairns. Komachi hears the whispers and giggling of the stillborns all around them, but none of them draw near.
“I don’t hurt humans anymore,” Murasa slowly says.
“That is a lie. You know that as well as I do.”
“I haven’t drowned a single person since Hijiri was unsealed!” Murasa snaps, her voice rising. The three of them stop walking and the stillborns go quiet. Murasa’s sea-green eyes flicker, a thousand years of pelagic fury roiling in waves, and Komachi catches a whiff of brine once again. She moves forward to stand closer to Eiki, grip tightening on her scythe.
Eiki holds out an arm, signaling for Komachi to stop.
“Your restraint would be admirable,” Eiki says, “if not for the guilt you’ve yet to assuage. As a funayūrei, it is your intrinsic nature to sink and drown. Why fight against that?”
Murasa’s eyes flicker again; it hadn’t been a trick of the light after all. “All those people I’ve killed—“
“You’re not a human,” Eiki softly says. She lifts a hand, as if considering resting it upon Murasa’s head or shoulder, but lets it drop back down to her side. “You don’t need to hold yourself back. That guilt is not yours to bear, Murasa.”
Komachi watches on, amazed, as Murasa lowers her head in shame. Somehow, witnessing this is worse than what she’d imagine would happen: Eiki would scold the ghost for being a nuisance and interfering with a shinigami’s duty, the ghost would be petulant, and then there’d be an amusing argument between the two that would end with the Rod of Remorse crashing down upon Murasa’s forehead. But none of that happened. All that came to pass was Eiki unraveling the tangled knots of a landlocked ghost who’d yet to shed her chains— who mustn’t shed her chains.
If Eiki were to scold anyone, it would be the monk who had turned Murasa into this.
Komachi swallows and gingerly speaks up, if only to break the somber mood. “So, about my boat…”
“Ah, yes. That will have to be replaced,” Eiki says, stroking her chin. “I’ve already sent word to the ministry. You can expect it to be delivered by tonight.”
“T-Tonight? So soon?”
“Well, of course. You didn’t think you would have the day off because of such a minor setback, did you? Delaying that would only mean delaying the passage of souls, and we certainly don’t want a repeat of what had happened four years ago. Hell’s bureaucracy can move with surprising efficiency when it really counts.” Eiki’s usual smile returns to her face, softening her features. She pats Murasa’s back and they continue strolling through the field of stone cairns. The giggling around them returns, scattered through the mist.
“I can’t not regret anything,” Murasa says with definitive confidence, once they’re clear of the Sai no Kawara. The river bubbles quietly alongside them, lapping against the riverbank. There’s less fog around here but it’s no less gloomy; the sunlight still struggles to cut through all that lingering spiritual energy, casting a murky light that leaves the impression of being at the bottom of a lake. It’s hard to tell what time it is. Murasa scuffs the toe of her boot into the ground, kicking up loose dirt. “I’m a ghost, for crying out loud! Regretting things comes with the territory.”
Eiki nods. “Release your guilt, but do not forget your regrets. That is what it means for you to be a funayūrei.”
“I hated being miserable all the time.”
“And that is… your prerogative,” Eiki says, hesitating only long enough for Komachi to notice. This time, Eiki does pat Murasa’s shoulder. “While I’m obligated to defend my subordinate, I would still encourage you to seek out other channels for your proclivities. There are plenty of bodies of water available in Gensokyo for you to haunt. Misty Lake, for example. Or Genbu Ravine— the kappa may be pleasant company for you.”
Komachi can’t stay quiet. She closes the distance to stride beside Eiki, matching her pace. “Hold on, are you encouraging her to keep attacking boats? What about the humans? What about my boat?!”
“I already said I’m not gonna apologize!” Murasa says.
“There is no need for her to apologize,” Eiki says at the same time, overlapping with Murasa. “Really, Komachi. I brought you along because I was hoping you would be able to see her side of things. Many of Gensokyo’s youkai have become far too docile; it’s refreshing to receive a newcomer with such pent-up rage.”
If Murasa takes any offense at being described as such, she doesn’t show it. Actually, she might have taken it as a compliment, if the way she puffs up her chest a little is any indication. Such a typical youkai.
“Ohhh, no!” Komachi swings an accusing finger, rather than her scythe, to point at Murasa. “I see where this is leading! You’re going to make even more work for me to take care of! Lady Eiki, you seriously can’t be telling her to let loose. The shrine maidens would only end up exterminating her, anyway!”
“Hey.” Murasa plants her fists on her hips, floating up to glare at eye level. “I haven’t even agreed with your boss. Hijiri would be furious if I went back to my old ways— or even worse, she’d be heartbroken, and I think you’re overestimating my cruelty.”
“But you certainly didn’t care when you capsized my boat, eh?”
“Would you let that go already? Sheesh, even I’m not that vengeful.”
While they’ve stopped to argue, Eiki wanders a few steps away to pluck a spider lily from the shoreline. She scrutinizes it, turning it this way and that, the stem held delicately between her thumb and forefinger. She kneels by the water and gently releases the flower to float away, bobbing along the current. Eiki bows her head in brief prayer before straightening up and smiling brightly to Murasa and Komachi. Neither of them had even noticed that she’d stepped aside for that moment of quiet thought.
“Come along, you two. We’re almost there.”
Komachi thinks she gets it. Like, really gets it. Maybe Eiki’s insightfulness had finally rubbed off on her, or the details of those old ghost stories finally came back to recollection.
As a funayūrei, Murasa’s existence is inextricable from her suffering.
No matter how many new layers she builds upon herself, facades of a cheerful girl with a silver tongue and of a playful ghost playing the role of a temple acolyte, there will always be the pure anger of a drowned spirit at her core. The ones who refuse to let go of their earthly attachments tend to be the angriest. Komachi knows from plentiful experience. For a young human to find herself in the position Murasa had all those centuries ago, morphed by legends into a terrible youkai that brought only death and suffering to those around her…
There should be no trace of human-ness left in her.
But Murasa claims to feel guilt for all the lives she’d claimed, against all common sense.
So Komachi gets it. She sees the way Eiki’s shoulders are tensed up and the subtle tightness at the corners of her smile. Eiki is… worried for this youkai, in the way that only a Judge of Hell could worry. Teaching a phantom how to feel human empathy is one thing, but suppressing her instincts altogether would only lead to a magnitude of anguish that even Murasa wouldn’t be able to wrap her head around. Then, when the breaking point is crossed– she’d either unleash an unfathomable calamity upon Gensokyo, or cease to exist altogether. Is it possible that the monk who took her in didn’t even realize that? Or was she aware and simply believed that a youkai’s very soul could be moulded into a different shape like clay?
Komachi rubs her forehead. Whether or not Eiki was going to launch into one of her infamous lectures, she supposes that Eiki would only be trying to help either way.
These revelations don’t do anything to temper her annoyance from earlier (she’s yet to overcome her mourning period for the Titanic) but Komachi keeps her mouth shut while Eiki continues to list off every pond and river and spring and waterfall available in Gensokyo for Murasa to visit.
The river narrows at the same time it plunges deeper, offering an ideal habitat for river monsters gone extinct in the outside world or given form through myths. It's far from where the souls of the departed typically converge, and too close to Higan for anything alive to dwell along the shores. The fog is impossibly thick and carries a blood-red tinge in what little sunlight is able to reach through, creating an effect not dissimilar to the red mist that had once blanketed Gensokyo for a couple days.
Then, they break through the fog, and arrive at a wooden shack precariously balanced at the edge of the riverbank. A long pier extends from the back, serving as a stopgap to prevent the shack from tipping into the murky waters. A woman sits along the pier, dangerously close to the hungry mouth of a long-necked reptilian creature trying to reach for the fish she dangles as high as her arm can go.
Urumi drops the fish at the same time she notices her visitors. The beast slips back into the water, satisfied with its snack, and swims away.
“Well, if it ain’t Miss Shinigami! How’s it goin’?” Urumi waves, swinging her legs back and forth over the water without a care in the world. “I see ya brought a couple friends along.”
“Hey there, Urumi! It’s been a while,” Komachi calls back, glancing to Eiki with uncertainty. Eiki doesn’t bow in greeting, but she nods rather stiffly; it’s clear she doesn’t quite hold Urumi in very high regards.
“Murasa,” Eiki says, while they're out of earshot, “I would like you to spend some time with this woman. She was once not unlike yourself, you know. Ushizaki was infamous for drowning many humans in her prime.”
Murasa raises a brow, nonplussed. “Are you… trying to set me up on a date?”
Komachi can’t help but snort out loud at that, which she quickly tries to disguise as a cough. Eiki, unbothered, patiently smiles and shakes her head.
“Ushizaki Urumi is a disgrace of a youkai. She now spends her time raising fish and selling them in the Human Village to earn coins for drinks. No matter how often I try to reason with her, she’s remarkably obstinate and claims this is her retirement.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad to me,” Murasa says, shrugging.
Eiki watches with a sharp gaze as Urumi stands up and approaches them at a leisurely pace, a fishing rod propped over her shoulder. Her tail lazily swats flies away. Even Komachi isn’t as relaxed as that woman, though she’d certainly come to loaf around in her company more than a few times before.
The introductions are short, because Urumi clearly doesn’t want to spend more than a minute speaking to Eiki and is quick to brush off anything that sounds like it might segue into a monologue about how she’s not doing her duties as an ushi-oni. She only gives Murasa a couple passing glances and Murasa seems more interested in staring at the river, as if expecting that large reptilian creature to resurface, but Komachi can feel the tense curiosity between them, like two unfamiliar dogs that had made eye contact with each other from across the street.
Urumi taps the fishing rod against her shoulder, peering down at Eiki over the bridge of her nose. “Yeah, alright. If it’ll get you off my back, I’ll keep her company for a while. Murasa, is it? C’mon, I’ve got some liquor in my house.”
“Sweet. Hey, where’d that big lizard-thing go?”
“Who knows? Let’s go for a swim after our drinks.”
Before Murasa trots off after Urumi, Eiki catches her by the shoulder and whispers something into her ear. Komachi can’t hear what’s said, nor can she read Eiki’s lips, but whatever she said must have finally hit its intended mark, because Murasa takes a deep, shuddering breath and nods. She nods and looks up at Eiki with something between reverence and apprehension, the begrudging respect of a youkai not accustomed to bowing before higher beings. Komachi wonders if Murasa ever looks at her beloved monk like that.
“… See you later, Miss Eiki. Komachi.” Murasa jogs to catch up with Urumi.
“Honestly, I was kinda hoping you’d scold her for sinking my boat,” Komachi admits. She closes the distance across the Sai no Kawara on their way back, just because she doesn’t feel like turning down requests to stack stones (no offense to the stillborns, but their hobby of choice is dreadfully boring) so she and Eiki find themselves at their starting point sooner than expected. There’s no trace of the Titanic’s wreckage. The only sign that it had actually happened is the imprint Komachi left among the spider lilies when she faceplanted.
“Why would I do that?” Eiki asks, and Komachi swears the corners of her lips just turned upward. “Would I scold the rooster for crowing at dawn?”
“Alright, alright, so I might’ve taken her attack too personally,” Komachi says, waving a wrist. “But, still. It’s rare for you to help someone without lecturing their ears off. What made that phantom so special?"
Eiki purses her lips and gazes across the river. Komachi had sometimes wondered how Eiki could retain such mercy and compassion after her centuries of service as a Judge of Hell. Thousands— no, millions of sinners have passed beneath her judgment and into Hell, and yet she’d take precious time out of her day— for what. To hear out a ghost beyond salvation?
“I could sense unfathomable energy in the shadow of such a tragedy for that drowned spirit…” Eiki muses aloud, pensive. “She may no longer be alive, but she is still among the living as a youkai. That is more than enough.”
Komachi sighs. She sets her scythe down to lean against the lopsided trunk of a weeping willow and sits beside it. Eiki doesn’t sit, but she moves to stand beside her. The two of them remain there to wait for Komachi’s new boat to be delivered, as the sun continues its slow descent to touch the Sanzu River's blurred horizon.