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Deft, dainty fingers ruffled through light silver hair, the humming of two people harmonising as a mother weaved her daughter’s silky hair into a bun worthy of a geisha. That both mother and daughter were Tsuchigumo using cloaking broaches was irrelevant.
The mother, with long, silken black hair, carried the lower tone in the harmony, her alto complimented by her daughter’s childish soprano. She knew well that this may be the last time her daughter was to sing this song with her.
Humans were encroaching on yokai territory.
Somehow, a legendary warrior named Yorimitsu had broken through an illusion cast upon him by the one of the mother’s many other children, her son, and had followed him beyond mystic barriers to slay the Tsuchigumo child in revenge.
That her son had tried to poison him first, as part of a Yokai resistance, wasn’t important to the Tsuchigumo mother.
Minamoto no Yorimitsu had to die.
He had already killed many Yokai, and now, he was invading their mystic towns and cities to do so.
Edo had already fallen, and Kyoto was under siege.
Their mystic cities were no longer safe.
Yokai were no longer safe.
She had lost all but her youngest child to the humans, the daughter kneeling in seiza in front of her, their long, elegant kimonos pooling around them like water pooled in the forests outside their home.
Her own kimono mirrored the colours of a golden-orb weaver spider, a rich scarlet on the shoulders blending into a deep gold at the bottom that brushes the tatami when she walks, and the bottom of her sleeves. A plain black obi is wrapped around her waist and tied in a neat bow at the back, the same colour as the patterns of lotus flowers - marking her with purity to separate her from the Jorogumo.
Her daughter was adorned in a kimono of the same royal style, but hers was a rare indigo blending into blossom pink, like the sakura that had bloomed last season, and patterned with the white lily of the valley. Once she was of age, she would earn her own flower by way of hanakotoba, but the lily of the valley was used for all Tsuchigumo children.
The hum softly becomes words as the two sing together; a nursery rhyme the mother has long used to soothe her sons when they were rambunctious, and connect with her daughters in moments like these, fixing that silver hair into a bun, or beating the futon clean, or cooking food over the irori.
“Maware, maware, maware, yo mizu guruma, maware. Mawatte, ohisan yon de koi. Mawatte, ohisan yon de koi. Tori, mushi, kemono, kusa, ki, hana. Haru, natsu, aki, fuyu tsure te koi. Haru, natsu, aki, fuyu tsure te koi.”
It’s a rhyme that Amaterasu brought to Earth with her from the Heavens, and it had passed through the Yokai of Nihon like a wildfire. It was said that if a human ever learnt their lyrics, or sung their song, then that human was a descendent of the Celestial Yokai, or an undiscovered yokai themselves.
But as the daughter fades into silence, peace in her voice and a smile on her face, the mother hesitates, her hands pausing in placing the kushi in the bun. She slides it in, taking a deep, solemn breath though her red-painted lips, stark against her white-painted face, and allows her own silky black hair to fall out of place as she dips her head and delicately places a hana-kanzashi atop the kushi.
She continues the song, her melody slow, sorrowful, and bittersweet.
“Maware, megure, megure yo, harukana, toki yo. Megutte kokoro o yobikaese. Megutte kokoro o yobikaese. Tori, mushi, kemono, kusa, ki, hana. Hito no nasake, o hagukumite. Matsu to shiki, kaba ima kaeri komu…” Her daughter turns her head to look at her mother in confusion, tinged with dawning horror at the implications of the words, her violet eyes shimmering with tears that she is too elegant to shed, and her lilac skin - lacking the white paint of an adult - beginning to flush darker with emotion.
“Oka-san…?” The grown woman nods her head a mere fraction. Her daughter gasps and spins around, clinging to the kimono of the Tsuchigumo, currently disguised as a human by her own bira-bira kanzashi, the cloaking broach masterfully crafted into the hair ornament by her own grandfather.
“Iie! Onegai, Oka-San, onegaishimasu… Kowagatta desu!” Her outburst is forgiven, for these are stressful times, and parting can be the hardest thing one must do. Her mother presses her forehead to the childs.
“Eigo, chiisana mama. English, little mama.” The nickname came from the first phrase the Mother had thought of, when she chose this daughter to raise amongst her last batch.
(She would have a new batch soon, if she survived this upcoming battle, but she couldn’t imagine any as beautiful as her daughter now.)
Mukashi no mama. The way things used to be.
For no Tsuchigumo had been born in over a thousand years with hair as silver and eyes as purple as her daughter, with skin a blessed lilac instead of common human tone.
Her seven hundredth child had been marked by the celestial beings, gifted by the gods, and meant for something far more than what could be achieved in the dying yokai cities of Japan.
“Mother, I’m scared, why are you leaving me?”
“Hush, little mama. You will be safe.” Childish lips press into a pout, a stubbornness arising that any self-respecting Japanese woman would have tamed. But she and her daughter were Tsuchigumo, not exactly members of the imperial palace, or high-standing nobles, despite their wealth.
“I will not! That foul Raikou is bringing his army here, I know this. I have heard it spoken, Mother, and the human shall come for children first. Was it not he, in haste, who slaughtered my brothers and sisters?” The Mother pulls her head away, leaving a mark of white paint of her daughter’s forehead. She lifts her arm gently to rub it off with the sleeve of her kimono.
“That is why you shall not be here when he arrives.” Purple eyes squint with thought. Then widen with realisation. Her daughter has always been quick witted and intelligent.
“You are not leaving me. You are forcing me to leave you.”
“Clever as always, little mama.” The child releases her grip on the front of her mother’s kimono and smoothes it out.
“That is why you have dressed me up. I am to make a good impression wherever you send me. You have asked me to speak English, so you will send me far ashore.” Nodding, the woman cups her daughter’s cheeks, still soft and tender with child fat.
“You will go to a land called America. There is a city there, called ‘New York’. It is the safest yokai city in the world, for it is protected by the Council of Heads.” Her daughter gasps. It was rumoured that the Council of Heads were such divine yokai, that they had lived above ground in a land called Rapa Nui, long before they had descended into the hidden cities of yokai to govern them.
They were as revered as Amaterasu and Nurarihyon themselves.
“The Council of Heads, wow…” Her mother huffs a small laugh, leaning back from her child and regaining proper seiza posture.
“You will be protected there.” A sharp nose crinkles in consideration, before her daughter fixes a firm gaze back upon her cloaked Tsuchigumo mother.
“And you, Mother? Will you be protected?” The adult does not have time to respond as there is the ringing of a small bell. Both Tsuchigumo look to it, the tiny bell in the rafters of their minka home violently shaking back and forth as the thin line of web it is attached to shivers and vibrates.
They both stand.
It was not the wind ringing the bell, or the vibrations of an earthquake.
It was a trip-line the mother had set with her own silk, a warning that a set perimeter had been breached, and that an army was marching their way.
It is good timing for the mother.
She did not want to answer her daughters question.
Quickly, she moves to a sliding door, soundlessly pulling it aside and exiting the tatami room, her bare feet stepping onto the wood of their corridors instead. Her daughter follows her, neither making a sound as they effortlessly glide down the corridors, kimono barely sweeping behind them.
Opening a small door to a tansu beneath the stairs into the attic for storing dried bamboo, the Mother draws out a kuruma-dansu, the wheels of the paulownia lacquered chest rattling against the wooden floors.
“Take this with you.” The child doesn’t have time to protest as the kuruma-dansu is pushed into her with a touch of panic, more bells ringing in the background now, and her Mother fetches what looks like a locket or pendant of some kind. She speaks as she draws the mystic symbol on a scroll hanging down next to the tansu.
“Use your cunning. Use your determination. Carve out a place for yourself and show your unparalleled strength.” The symbol glows, and the scroll opens into a gaping oni maw. From within, and beneath the swirling roar of the vortex itself, the daughter can hear English in an accent she’s never heard before.
Her own English was taught through her mother, who had learnt from yokai cities in places called London, Cardiff, and Belfast. Each had their own strong accents, but this… ‘New York’ is completely different. She clasps tightly at the kuruma-dansu.
“You speak as if we shall never meet again.” The look on her mothers face tells it all. This silver haired, violet eyed child is going to be alone in a foreign city, with no one to guide her. And no one to return to.
A rare kiss lands upon her forehead.
“Be brave, little mama.”
“... Big mama.” Mother tilts her head, silken black hair draping over her shoulders that will soon be adorned in amour, and stood side by side with the few yokai she will lead into battle, boosting the appearance of their resistance through illusion.
“If you are going to lay your life at the feet of Minamoto no Yorimitsu, and I am going to be alone far from our home, then I am not your little mama anymore.” She says it with such certainty that her mother smiles, adjusting the cloaking broach Kanzashi in her own hair, before reaching down and pressing a second cloaking broach into her daughters palm.
This one, a dark, circular red in a gold frame, to be worn around the neck.
“Mirai no tame ni tatakau, jouyou mama. Daisuke desu.” A tear leaks from one of the chil- from Big Mama’s eye. She doesn’t miss that her mother has translated ‘Big’ as important, meaningful, and significant, rather than large in size.
She commits her mother’s voice, her mother tongue, and her mother’s wishes to memory, knowing that two of those shall cease to exist when faced with a legendary warrior.
“Ittekimasu.”
“Itterashai.”
(It’s the last Japanese she’ll hear until she works on set with Lou Jitsu, many centuries later.)
With one last brave intake of air - taking in the rural mountain air and ignoring all those bells ringing, ignoring the scent of copper on the horizon - Big Mama steps through the swirling portal.
It’s different from travelling between Edo and Kyoto.
It lasts longer, it’s a different kind of a spin, and it’s so much noisier.
… Great, she hasn’t even landed and she’s already homesick. She’s completely unaware that the harshness of the portal is due to one end being cut off, completely destroyed as her mother burns the scroll, determined to protect her daughter with the life she’s about to give up, the life she’s going to sacrifice on the battlefield to hold Minamoto no Yorimitsu back from the second last hidden city of Japan.
(Hokkaido was the last stronghold, a yokai city that seemed impenetrable, if only because it had completely shut itself off from the world - no Yokai ever entered, and no Yokai ever left. Even so, it would be found by humans and destroyed only 42 years after Kyoto fell.)
The little girl crashes out of the portal, landing in a dusty street surrounded by many odd faces looking down at her. Quickly, she stands and bows respectfully, brushing the dirt off her kimono.
“Hello. My name is Big Mama. I have come from Kyoto. Please, show me where I can stay.” Most of the strangers move off, but one, a cloven hooved goat pre-teen stays curiously behind.
“Are you a human?”
“No. I’m a Tsuchigumo.” She taps the broach in her hair, deactivating the mystic cloaking. In a swirl of lavender, she’s in her natural form, a spider yokai the same size as her child form, her hair thinner and more displaced, yet still kept neatly in a bun by the kanzashi.
The goat seems to nod in approval.
“We have hotels and boarding schools here. I would suggest the Academy in market street, or, for you, the Girl’s Institute of Education in Witch Town.”
“Witch Town?” The word witch is unfamiliar to the Tsuchigumo. She’s never heard anything like it before. But the goat boy nods as if her question was a decision.
“This way.” With nothing more than the clothes she was wearing and the kuruma-dansu she gripped like it was lifeline, Big Mama follows him all the way to a building that looks equally inviting, and imposing.
“Just go inside and sign up to one of their courses. They’ll provide free boarding, food, and study materials.” It almost sounds too good to be true, but Big Mama is not going to pass up an opportunity to make the best start in this new life. She has to, her mother wanted it for her.
“Thank you. May I ask your name?” The goat boy had already turned to walk off, abandoning her so quickly though he was so quick to help before. He pauses, ears twitching before he nods.
“Baron Draxum. May we meet again, Big Mama.” She bows deep at the waist in gratitude, before heading inside. There’s no-one at the desk at the front, just an enticing glowing book on the counter, and a quill next to it.
Big Mama hesitates once again.
She could speak English fluently, but to write it?
She was still learning Kanji, she didn’t have time to learn a fourth writing system.
Doubtfully, she presses the quill to the book, and writes her name in Japanese. 重要 - the same kind of ‘big’ that her Mother had called her, followed by ママ in katakana because she couldn’t think of any kanji that mama in the way of mukashi no mama could be represented by.
The ink seeps into the page.
As if by magic - (Because it was mystics, she obviously knew) - the next thing to appear is a form to fill out, and it’s all in japanese. All she has to fill in is her age, circle the class she would like to take, and notify the institution of any allergies.
Two of those points are easy to complete.
But choosing a class…
Her mother had said to fight for her future. She had said to use cunning and determination. She had said to carve out a place, to have unparalleled strength.
Big Mama circles the business class.
What better way to do all those things, than to work hard and manipulate her way to the top, owning properties and people and customs?
She doesn’t know it yet, but by circling that option, the little girl has secured her fate, put herself on a drive towards her future, a future where she accomplishes all her mother wanted for her, but indulged in the greed and viciousness the ancient Tsuchigumo were famed for.
She was, at the end of it all, the way it always was.