Yes, I know, people who have already read some of my stories are waiting for me to finish what I've started. I was never good at doing that. Sorry. I just finished watching this series, and I wanted to do something about it. When you get hit on the head with one of those smashing-pumpkins of ideas, you have to seize that Newton-esque moment and run with it.

Rated T, for the violence you know there will most likely eventually be. And yes, the title is a give-away. Research it if you want to ruin the surprise - I don't blame you. Really, I don't. - but otherwise all will be explained. Most likely. Just like the other fics will all be finished one day as well.

Promise.

Enjoy.

~ Wai-Jing

Mononoke - Jubokko

...

The eyes that see …

The ears that hear …

The mouth that speaks… the truth…

Many men believe in the truth, and yet it is questionable whether the truth really exists. For it is the nature of man to manipulate and perverse with his words the actual events that have taken place. It is, perhaps, not an exaggeration to say that all that comes from the mouth of man is in some way false, twisted by his own ego. Man's nature is flawed, and he is so inseparable from his faults that all he does is tainted by them. Surely, Man cannot speak the truth.

Some would say that only virtuous men of a more refined spiritual temperament, such as holy men, can utter the truth from venerated lips. And yet, priests can lie, and have lied out of love, in order to give false hope to the people, and also out of spite, to take advantage of the people. Holy men may be closer to god, yet are still close enough to be besmirched by the uncleanliness of their fellow Man's callous nature.

Perhaps, then, truth is only possible when it comes from the very mouths of the Gods? And yet… the stories of old tell us of deceptive gods who tricked the people into worship and made false demands. Even the gods are compelled sometimes to lie.

Who, then, is the creator of truth?

Man, or Gods? Or perhaps…

Prologue

It was a splendid day in autumn, a day whipped into being by chill breezes which already whispered with memories of winters past. If a bird flying high in the sky had looked down upon the treetops below him, he may have been mistaken in thinking that the forest was on fire. The branches of the maples were a brilliant mass of colour, rippling like flame across the plain. A rough track wove its way beneath a canopy nodding with tongues of fire which spat out sparks here and there, in the form of leaves that fell with bright, jagged edges, falling to the ground to be trampled underfoot, like so much ash.

Tk-Tk… Tk-Tk… Tk-Tk…

Usually this forest path was quite heavily frequented, as it led to and fro between the rice fields and the homes of the villagers who tended them and relied upon them. And yet, at this time of day, only one person trod this particular section of the path. The forest floor was hazardous, fraught with twisting tree roots that ran across the narrow track, seemingly searching for a careless foot to snare and upset; yet this person navigated them with complete confidence, never faltering, his wooden geta resonating with each step. Like the sound of the taiko drum being played:

Tk-Tk… Tk-Tk… Tk-…

The man suddenly stopped in the middle of the path. It is impossible to say just why. Perhaps the heavy box he bore upon his back urged him to pause for a moment's rest. However, he did not seem to be bowed beneath its weight; he hefted it with ease. He merely seemed to have stopped on a whim. A new forest breeze sprung into being, playing with wisps of the traveller's hair, making the twin tied tails of his bandanna flutter before it, like the wings of a hapless butterfly. Yet the man stood unmoved. He tilted his head back slightly, as though he were tasting the breeze. Savouring the bitter tang of cold winter in its depths, like the aftertaste left in an emptied teacup. Seemingly satisfied, he split his lips and spoke - to himself, to the breeze, to the woods; it's impossible to tell to whom he addressed these words:

"The maples this year… are… nice."

This was spoken quiet and low, a matter-of-fact statement; and yet, this man seemed to imbue this simple phrase with a strangely fitting sense of mysteriousness. It was a voice which would have befitted the chill autumn wind, had it been able to speak words.

Did this man expect some reply? Whether he expected it or not, he nevertheless got one; something in his pack seemed to rattle and chatter, as though it contained something alive. It was a wordless noise, and yet this cryptic answer seemed to please the man; he smiled a knowing, somewhat indulgent smile, rather like a parent beaming at something clever his child has said. Whatever his pack had told him, the man seemed satisfied. A moment later, the sound of the taiko drum struck up again:

Tk-Tk… Tk-Tk… Tk-Tk…

The man continued along the path.