5A/N: I probably shouldn't start another story as I have two ongoing stories already but this idea has been kicking around in my brain and wouldn't leave me alone.
Let me see what else? Oh yes, this is not meant to be an accurate re-telling of history. I borrowed some historical facts and re-invented the rest. But if you see something that really doesn't fit, no matter what, please let me know. Thanks for reading.
A moonlit, snow-capped tree
Dreams
Of distant spring-
"Master Morioka! Master! They are here!" a young priest burst into the old master's plainly furnished room. He fell to his knees on the tatami mats. "They demand we give up the child or they'll-they'll...burn the monastery!"
Morioka looked up from his writing. His brush hovered a couple of inches above the paper for a moment before he laid it down gently. Taking his time to rise from his sitting position, his joints creaking as he did, he said, "Stay calm, young Kenji. No one is going to burn our home tonight."
The older priest traced his way, slowly but surely, towards the temple's front yard, past the narrow, darkened corridors of wood floor and plain wood beams, past the sliding, rice paper doors lining one side of the walls, past the holy scripts in bold, black ink. His footsteps did not make a sound. Unlike the footsteps of his agitated, young acolyte, who led a couple of paces ahead, lifting an oil lamp in one hand to light the way. The floor gleamed and sighed under the light.
"But master, why do you insist on protecting this child? He has given us nothing but trouble. Some people say he's...bad luck!" The young priest tried to keep his voice calm but failing. He couldn't, for the life of him, understand why his master would risk the well-being of the monastery and its priests for the sake of one child. It's tough enough to be a Buddhist monk nowadays. What with the Emperor frowns upon us. And the child, he is not even human!
The old man stepped down by the front entrance of the main building, pausing momentarily to slide his socks-clad feet into his wooden sandals. A couple of yards away, a small crowd had gathered, dark under the red moon and as restless as a hot summer wind.
"If you are the one who is left on our doorstep with nowhere else to go, I would do the same for you, young Kenji," Morioka said. "No matter who or what you are." He shuffled towards the crowd while Kenji hung his head in shame.
"Good evening Master Morioka," a tall man bowed his head slightly. His left hand rested on the hilt of his long sword, tucked into his obi. In contrast with the monks' rough and scratchy robes, he wore a fine pair of generous, loose-flowing pants and a silk, dark grey kimono. Like many in his station, he had opted to cut his top knot off and wore his hair in the western style instead. "We are here to fetch the demonling you have under your roof."
Morioka bowed from the waist. With a smile and a calm voice, he said, "Ah, the child is well-cared here, Mr. Satsuma. You should not concern yourself with one colicky baby."
Satsuma's heavy-lidded eyes beheld the wizened priest before him. He studied the fine-boned skull, thin and lined by old age, the silver swept of the brows, bright against the shadows, and the watery but alert eyes. The monk seemed frail, shrunken. And yet, the old man held his shoulders back, squared his chest and stood as if he was as tall and impenetrable as the mountain. "A small temple such as this," Satsuma said, "should not be burdened for caring a demonling. Allow me to take this weight off your back."
"He's bad luck!" one ragged peasant shouted. His sleeves were tattered. "We lost this year's harvest because of him."
"Yea, bring him out. He has to pay for what he has done!" a woman shrilled.
More high-pitched voices joined in. A few men took a couple of step forward. "Surrender him! Give him to us, old monk! Or we'll burn this place to the ground and beat the living hell out of you and your dirty priests!"
"He's not one of you! Not one of us. Why do you care? Save yourself!" The voices crescendoed into a fevered plea. Save us. Burn him and save us.
Morioka raised both of his hands to appease the crowd and said, "Surely you don't believe that one child has that much power-"
One peasant hurled a pebble at Morioka, hitting his forehead. The withered man staggered and would have fallen if Kenji had not caught his master's arm to steady him. The sharp rock had cut into the skin and blood trickled down Morioka's face. Satsuma looked on without saying anything. He would neither spur the angry crowd, nor stop them.
After he composed himself, Morioka bowed from the waist once more towards the peasant who had bloodied him and said, "Did that calm your rage young man? If not, then please, pitch another one. But you shall not have the child. The lost harvest is not his fault. He would not be punished for it."
The moon hid her face behind the veil of dark clouds. The late autumn wind was damp and chilled, heralding a return of a long, hard winter. Food would be scarce as the harvest had failed. Through the second floor window, a two-year-old watched from the lap of another priest. His wide eyes were a curious shade of amber.
The crowd whispered among themselves. However at the end, no one could bring him or herself to throw another stone.