When her attention came back to the beast, it was too close. But worse was Hanshiro. He was right upon her, roaring and slashing down with the sickle.
Okappa twisted so that the knife missed the monkey at her breast and caught her arm and her side instead. The rip of cloth and her skin, cold and stinging underneath.
Hanshiro raised the weapon again. Nowhere to go. Okappa, holding the monkey close and whispering in his ear, turned and dove into the well.
They fell.
The rush of air sweet with the scent of dew >and a mossy forest floor, trees, felt like it was slowing their descent.
The sweet wind whipped at her torn kimono. With the belt sliced through, the rough cloth opened and the sleeves released the tufts of crane down she’d collected all these years. The balls of fluff separati
