Brave Story (116 page)

As he walked, he remembered what had happened to him in the real Swamp of Grief. He couldn’t help it—the details of the vision he had seen there were etched indelibly into his memory: the other Wataru, the murder of Yacom and Lili Yannu, the stone-baby that had chased him.

Had it all been a hallucination brought on by the toxins in the swamp water? Had poison found a way into his heart when he met the pair who looked like his father and his father’s lover? That would explain the horrible outcome of that encounter. He never wanted to go back to the Swamp of Grief again, and here he was walking through it once more.

Let’s get this done with quickly
. He tried to shut off his memories so he wouldn’t have to see the faces of Satami and Sara again. And he especially didn’t want to think about that crawling baby that continued to haunt him with every step he took. Wataru had to stop and shake his head to keep the phantoms at bay. He had reached the center of the lake. Seen from the middle, the Swamp of Grief was almost a perfect circle, rimmed by the marsh and thickets of sickly-looking grass.

Suddenly, a strange thought occurred to him.
The circle is like a stage. I’m the only actor in a show of one. And my audience? The sullen swamp air and a few muddy clumps of reeds. Lovely.

Then he heard a voice.

—Traveler.

Wataru tensed.

—Young Traveler, Wataru.

The voice was mechanical, flat—if crystal itself could speak, it would probably sound just like this.

—If you come to kneel at my feet, you must prove beyond all doubt that you are a Brave.

To kneel? Is the Goddess talking to me?

—
As the hand of the mother guides her child from morning to evening, I beseech you—call home the split soul, the wandering one. Call him back to you.

Call what back? How do I prove who I am?

The voice of the Goddess spoke again before Wataru had time to sort his muddled thoughts.

—Now, rise, and triumph!

At a loss, Wataru stood, then he saw it.

Something was approaching from the far edge of the lake—a person, walking toward him, one step at a time. Something about his gait seemed familiar—the shape of the head, the angle of the shoulders. Then he realized why it seemed so unnervingly familiar.

He was looking at his own reflection. It was another Wataru.

His jacket was off, a sword was stuck through the hempen belt at his waist, even the wear on the soles of his weather-beaten boots was identical. The only thing different was his expression. His mouth was twisted into a defiant smirk beneath a pair of eyes that were blazing with rage. The skin of his face was drawn tightly over his cheekbones, and Wataru thought he could see drops of blood splattered across the front of his shirt.

It was Wataru as he had seen him in the Swamp of Grief. Wataru the murderer.

That was just a hallucination. It wasn’t real. It was a nightmare. None of that really happened. It’s a lie, a liar, a lie!

Trembling, Wataru stepped backward. The other Wataru was rapidly closing the distance between the two of them. He came so close he could see the shadow his eyelashes cast on his face. In one smooth motion, the other Wataru drew his Brave’s Sword.

His evil twin opened his mouth, but the voice that he heard was that of the stone-baby who had chased him in the Swamp.

“I’ve been waiting for you, murderer.”

Then Wataru realized. This reproduction of the Swamp of Grief was no stage. It was an arena. A place of combat. He would have to fight this hallucination—this image of himself—right here and right now.

Rise, and triumph!

The other Wataru kicked the surface of the lake with the toe of his boot.

Wataru didn’t have time to think. He didn’t even have time to reach for his sword. In a flash, his double had closed the distance between them, and the Brave’s Sword cut keenly through the air just below Wataru’s chin. Wataru’s legs buckled and he fell flat on his back, looking up at the sky. The inertia of his fall sent him skidding across the crystallized water.

Unable to change his direction, Wataru slid until he collided with the feet of his double who had run ahead of him. The sword was coming down straight at him. Wataru screamed and rolled off to one side. The edge of the sword bit into the surface of the lake, sending shards of crystal flying through the air.

Wataru crawled away, finally managing to regain his feet. His murderous double was behind him now. The sword swung a second time, coming so close that the wind from the blade’s passage through the air was enough to slice into Wataru’s ear. Blood trickled down his neck.

He didn’t have time to feel pain. The blood was warm on his cheek, and droplets soaked into his shirt. Wataru’s head spun with such fear and confusion that he couldn’t tell which one of them led and which followed, which was real, and which was merely an image.
Is it him? Is it me?

Wataru ran, but his reflection grabbed his shirt from behind, and pulled him down. They both fell to the hard surface of the lake. Wataru felt the coldness of the boy beneath him, and it sent a shiver down his spine.
What is this thing?
It felt like it was made out of ice.

But it’s real, it moves, even though it’s not alive and it’s certainly not a ghost.

Wataru’s adversary swung his arm, bringing the hilt of the Brave’s Sword in his hand down on Wataru’s head.

“I’m gonna kill you!” his double screamed, mocking him with his own words. The hatred emanating from his reflection was palpable.

Finally he managed to grab the hilt of his own sword. He couldn’t think of any words, he merely prayed.
Fly!

It was enough. In the blink of an eye, Wataru found himself on his back at the edge of the lake. He hadn’t escaped completely, but at least he had time to stand up, catch his breath, and draw his sword. His legs and hands continued to shake and his shoulders heaved.

The other Wataru was still in the middle of the lake, standing straight and calm as though nothing had happened.
Even his posture mocks me.
His face was still twisted in an evil smile. He seemed ready to laugh out loud. This was the hardest thing to believe.
No matter how low I sink, I could never smile like that.

“H-hey, you!” Wataru said through trembling lips. He lifted his Brave’s Sword. It wasn’t a fighting pose. He was gripping the hilt of the sword like a drowning man grips a life preserver.

“You’re not me! You’re not! You don’t exist! You’re a hallucination!”

Wataru fired a magebullet. His double easily dodged the glowing bolt as it arced over the lake. The next shot he caught with the blade of his sword, sending it straight into the sky like a meteor in reverse.

“You’re not real!” With that as his battle cry, Wataru launched himself at his double. His look-alike broke into a run too, coming straight for him. Just when he thought his blade was in reach, the double leaped. His foot came down on the hand in which Wataru held his sword and jumped clear over his head.

Uh-oh!
Wataru sensed the kick coming even before it hit him in the back. He went sprawling face first.

He’s too fast. There’s no way I can beat him like this.
Despair and powerlessness morphed into fear.
What do I do now? How do I win? How can I even survive? I need to hide.

Barrier magic!

Bracing himself against the pain, Wataru chanted a quick spell and moved the tip of his blade in the shape of a cross. His heart was already beating fast. The added strain of raising the barrier made his heart and lungs scream.

Wataru disappeared. His double narrowed his eyes, one hand at his waist, the other hand letting his sword point dangle down toward the lake. He was grinning.

Safe behind his barrier, Wataru began to move, slowly.
If I can only get close enough to strike.

He could feel his strength draining away. The pain made his eyes pop out of his head. White noise filled his head. His consciousness began to slip.

His double stood straight and tall as if to say
I have nothing to fear from you, little boy.

His back is turned. He can’t see me. Now’s my chance. I have to do this, I have to!

Three more steps. Two more. One more step and I’ll reach his back.

Wataru lifted his sword, and his double whipped around, an evil grin on his face. “Nice try!”

With a mocking laugh, the double thrust out his sword. Wataru was holding his own blade high over his head—he was wide open. The point of the Brave’s Sword slid deep into his chest.

Wataru’s mouth snapped open. He had been holding his breath and now he exhaled in one giant heave. Arms still raised over his head, he slowly looked down at the blade sticking into his chest. Blood was seeping out around the blade, soaking his shirt. The mirror-image Brave’s Sword was buried deep in his chest.

Wataru felt no pain, but he was freezing. The sword had found his heart and was pouring icy coldness directly into his body.

I’m going to die.

It was a logical conclusion.

My double defeated me. I’m going to bleed, and then I’ll die.

His strength left him and his legs bowed. Wataru dropped to his knees onto the surface of the lake. His arms hung limply by his side. His own sword fell loose from his grip, its sharp point hanging listlessly between his knees.

Wataru’s conqueror yanked his sword back. Now free of the blade, Wataru collapsed to one side. Laughter rang in his ears. “Pitiful boy. Sad little boy. It’s over.”

The assailant turned his back on Wataru and began walking toward the far shore. His gait was ebullient—he was almost skipping. Wataru’s blood dripped from the tip of the Brave’s Sword hanging from his hand as he left.

—Wataru.

The gemstones in his sword were calling to him.

—Steady, Wataru.

—Remember what the Goddess said.

—You mustn’t fight.

—Your double is you.

—Remember the Goddess’s words.

Blood flowed from his wound, spreading across the crystalline surface of the water. Wataru was lying in a puddle of his own blood.

The Goddess’s words?

Wataru hung on the brink of consciousness. He stretched out a hand, desperately trying to retain his grip on sanity.

—Call him back.

—The split soul.

That double? That murderer?

—Yes, yes. Because that is you, Wataru.

Wataru lifted his head. A stream of blood trickled out of his mouth. He had no strength left in him.
I’m drowning in a sea of blood.

Somehow he mustered enough strength to sit up. The gemstones were all calling for him now.

—
Wataru, Wataru, don’t die. Don’t give up.

—Don’t leave your other half alone. Acknowledge him. Accept him.

After much effort, he was able to sit at the edge of the lake. His double was already standing on the far shore and had begun to disappear through the swamp reeds.

“Hey!” Wataru called out. It took all his remaining strength to do so.

The double stopped, turning around silently, a snake sensing its prey.

“I’m not dead yet!”

The smile faded from his double’s face. He lifted his sword.

—Accept him.

With a shrill battle cry, his double charged across the lake. He ran with the speed of a hurricane. The tip of his blade gleamed with reflected light from the crystal.

Wataru closed his eyes and quietly spread his arms. He breathed. Fresh blood spilled from his mouth. But he stood his ground. He was calling. His heart was calm.

I have nothing to fear. I’m just calling him back.

Calling back the soul split from me.

Come home!

The double collided with Wataru—and evaporated. He was drawn into Wataru. Two became one.

The force of the impact blew Wataru’s hair straight up and knocked him sprawling on his back.

Quiet returned to the Swamp of Grief.

When he opened his eyes, Wataru was looking up at the sky, his arms and legs splayed out in the shape of an X. He could feel the hard surface of the lake; it was solid beneath him.

Wataru gingerly moved his hand, poking at his chest. His shirt was dry. He lifted his head. There was no sign of any wound, nor any blood.

Wataru tried standing. His legs held him up.

I’m alive.

A smile came unbidden to his lips, then a warm wave of relief washed through his body. He put a hand to his chest and felt his heart beating beneath the skin.

Wataru had parted ways with his hatred back in the Swamp of Grief, and now it had come back. It was home in Wataru’s body where it belonged. At last, he understood. The gate he had passed through to reach the arena: the fifth pattern
was
the key. He hadn’t felt anything when he stood on it because the fifth pattern stood for hate.