Free Segaki by David Stacton

were cottages, huddled beneath a mound covered with startled pines. Beside the charred ruins of what must once have been a small wayside shrine, rose the skeleton of a tree, on one of whose bleached limbs lay a deceptive grey moss that could not be foliage. Gathered at the base of the tree were seventeen overbred ghost foxes. They were a shadowy white, their gestureswere of the utmost elegance, and they yipped politely to each other. The ricks trembled. The foxes paid no attention to the ricks. On each of their foreheads was a leaping yellow flame, and as they yipped to each other, glancing contemptuously at the ricks, the flames flared up and down with a hissing and voluble intelligence. Nor was that all. The stars seemed to shrink. And from across the hollow, came other leaping lights, leisurely, like a bevy of court ladies, walking contentedly out of the dead past, but bound for the same tree. The air bore their voices from a greater distance. They were excited and pleased. One or two screamed and frothed at the mouth, running to and fro, so that the flames shot out and changed direction in a confusing pattern.
    Who sees ghost foxes is not apt ever to see anything else. Dead souls ravenous for life, though always fastidious , they gathered in old temples and wayside shrines, demons attached to the maize goddess. Trouble is the only thing that thaws their icy courtesy. The ricks were shaking violently. At any moment, when all had gathered, the foxes would take off in a pack.
    Muchaku blinked rapidly, but they were still there, and there was no question of their validity. More and more of them appeared, out of nowhere, until the depression was a sea of cold, rational flame.
    He turned and ran down the road, stumbling badly. He had had enough. The dog was after him. The road was shadowy and empty, but the lights of the inn streamed out across the rough dirt, and though his heart pounded, he knew he had to reach them. He could hear the patter of weightless feet behind him. He panted hard.
    But this at least was not a ghost. This was an inn. If hecould reach it, he would be safe. As he ran along, the ricks seemed to pause and stare at him with disbelief.
    He did not reach it. He was within ten yards of it, and could see how, though every window and doorway was lit, it seemed abandoned. Perhaps it was a phantom after all, yet he could smell the odours of cooking. It was long since he had had food. He lurched forward.
    From somewhere behind in the wood, that ghost music started up again, whining through the air like an arrow. Wood clunked against wood. There was a gong.
    At the sound of the gong, the ricks stopped and then reversed direction. He did not notice. He had almost reached the grounds of the inn. A scrawny arm appeared from nowhere and laid hold of him. He flinched, but it would not let go. His sleeve ripped.
    He found himself staring at a mottled old woman with two teeth. Her sunken eyes were almost invisible, and her eyebrows were grey and spidery.
    “Not there,” she shrieked at him, seeing he was a priest. “Not if you value your life, not there.” She shook him, cackling to herself, and then shoved him out of her way. He lost his footing, stumbled forward, and fell into a ditch. The dog leaped after him. Of the old woman there was no further sign.
    The sounds were now louder around him. He heard the clanking of arms and the scream of arrows. He half raised his head, and as he did so, that so warm and inviting inn burst spontaneously into flame. It lit up the whole landscape, and he saw the ricks moving luridly in every direction.
    He cowered in the wet dirt of the ditch, face up. The air now reeked of blood and was flame red. He heard thecrackling of the flames, and the earth shook with the sound of pounding. A horse’s hoof appeared wriggling beside his face, then lifted, he had a glimpse of the belly, and heard the business-like porcupine rattle of armour. The music had swirled away, but the animal grunts and