As I level with her, she smiles.
“Do not worry, Ichisumi. You will do fine.” Her voice is soft like freshly cooked rice, and it is easy to see why she is one of the most celebrated geisha in all of Gion.
“May I beg your indulgence to ask where we are heading?” I ask as we start to walk again, myself breathless.
“The Ichiriki Teahouse.”
The Ichiriki Teahouse is one of the largest and most celebrated teahouses in all of Gion. In the daytime, it looks like a simple okiya, that any geisha might live in. Yet at night… at night, it is a force to be reckoned with. It is a great beast of a wooden structure, higher than the Shijo buildings, painted a deep brown and red, that looms over unsuspecting maiko’s, like some kind of majestic crane. Small chimney pieces puff out great clouds of black steam. Tracks are uncovered at the left hand side of the building, and small steam engines are able to pull up at the side, depositing a number of gentlemen to visit the teahouse. I even heard tell that the garden was big enough for an airship to land in!
Only the best can afford to be entertained here, people like governors and other high ranking officials. No young uncouth soldiers or waiters here, not unless their relatives have paid and saved for a lifetime. Masami has entertained here for a number of years, and as we walk in the gentle breeze, she explains that it was her minarai-jaya. This means the Ichiriki sponsored her as she made her debut. I can only hope they will choose to sponsor me too.
“Ichisumi, I must warn you. The mistress may be a hatchet faced crone sometimes, but if you get on her good side, it is like being friends with Buddha himself. Cross her, and you’re playing with fire.”
My fear swells again, and it is as if I can almost feel the adrenaline pumping through my body. It’s coursing along my veins, like snake venom, like poison.
I’m scared.
“Masami-san—” I stop as I speak.
“Miss! Miss!”
I twist, without toppling off my okobo, and see the small boy pushing through the increasing crowds towards me, a fist bunched tightly. His cheeks are flushed, and the wind whips his short, black hair back.
He stops in front of me, panting heavily, a wide toothed smile spreading across his cheeks. He wipes his dribbling nose on the sleeve of his ripped shirt.
“For you.”
He pushes the hastily wrapped paper package into my hands and with trembling fingers, I open it. Instantly, I am stunned. It is a braided piece of leather, with a golden coin hanging from it. It is only a simple design, but it is sweet. Especially, that he has given me it from the goodness of his heart. He would be better to spend the money on a decent meal or two, instead of buying jewellery for a humble maiko, but I am impressed.
I stammer out my thanks, and in response, he gives me a low clumsy bow.
“You are a maiko. Pretty maiko,” he says.
I feel heat rise into my cheeks, and I thank him again.
“Masami-san, can you fix it for me, please?” I hand her the necklace and she hooks it around my neck, without a word. The metal clasp is cool on my skin, and the coin hangs under my kimono. I touch the small bump it makes.
“For luck. Pretty maiko,” the boy repeats.
He turns and runs off down the street, giving me a backwards glance. It is a face full of joy. I wish he could see where he is going, as a cart rumbles past him, its small engine spluttering, almost begging for a shovel full of coal. The boy screeches to a halt and rocks backwards and forwards unsteadily, his arms swinging like sails in the breeze, as it passes, the driver waves his fist in anger.
I laugh and turn back to Masami.
“You are clearly making impressions. The first of many admirers in your future.”
I touch the place where the coin rests once again, and my mind wanders to my little brother, Takumi. He would be fourteen by now. I have no idea where he is, or what he is doing. I miss him — my father too. He died when I was ten in a fishing accident. When the letter arrived, I could to nothing but cry.
I hold back the tears that threaten to fall and try not to think of my fallen father. He would be proud if he could see me now, and so would my mother. She had high hopes for me. I carry on her hopes now, for her.
My fear evaporates as we start to walk again. Other geishas and their apprentices are moving about now, and Shijo Avenue becomes a mass of swirling colours, bright and vibrant against the incoming darkness. Whites and blacks, pinks and blue, greens and creams. I feel as if I am walking through a rainbow. Many nod their greetings to me.
My friend Oyuki passes by with her elder sister. She gives me a shy wave, and I wonder how she is faring. She has been a maiko longer than I have, but I have heard there have been accidents — like pouring sake in a patrons lap. She told me in confidence that a patron asked her to perform a dance, and gave her a “special” fan to use. She threw the fan upwards, and to her great surprise, a knife slid out if its centre, almost impaling her foot, much to the laughter of the men.
I sincerely hope that I do not show Masami up like that.
We round the corner at the top of Shijo and head over the narrow wooden bridge that leads straight to the Ichiriki. Our okobo thump on the planks and the river runs, a gentle trickle underneath us. It is a beautiful sound, literally music to my ears.
The full moon hangs in the sky, and it fills me with awe. There is nothing so poignant and beautiful than the moon at night. It makes me think of life — how I escaped the poverty and death that grew rife in the village, how I came to be taken in by a kind and loving okiya, and how I have been so lucky to become a creature of beauty and skill.
An airship looms into the view of the moon, blocking it. It’s vast and the fumes fill the air. It is stronger than most of the fuel that the street mechanics use and I wriggle my nose.
The Ichiriki hovers above me now, and I stop before it, praying to the Gods that all will go well.
“Are you ready?” Masami asks, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder.
I nod. “Masami-san, I would like to thank you for everything. One day, I will make you proud.”
“I am already proud of you,” she smiles, laying a gentle kiss on my hair.
As the entryway of the teahouse consumes me, I welcome my new life. Hello, maiko.
The Hand
Amanda Gatton
Mausoleum
By Cindy J. Smith
Reading diaries
Of dead relations
Tidbits needed some
Verification
Cemetery bound
One hot afternoon
To find the answers
I hoped would come soon
On a grassy knoll
Mausoleum stood
Looked so prestigious
Aged marble and wood
Here was my whole past
Should solve mystery
Of missing branches
In my family tree
Gate a bit rusty
Squealed opening it
Felt a cold shiver
Entering the crypts
Gaslight did little
To brighten the space
Almost turned and ran
Away from this place
Determined, I stayed
First tomb was no help
Approaching tomb two
A sound made me yelp
Swear heard grinding like
Unused gears turning
Fear escalated,
Stomach was churning
Kept going onward
Find answers a must
Will read every plaque
Or visits a bust
The eighth was dirty
Dust hard to remove
When suddenly I
Felt plaque start to move
I let go a scream
Then turned back and ran
But I was stopped short
By a bony hand
A soft eerie light
Made everything clear
Wren City
By Catherine Stovall
Cassandra Dalton sat with her face turned toward the dusty window of the passenger car, watching the dry, brown landscape pass by. The hiss and puff of the engine as it trudged along the tracks rocked her gently, causing a permanent state of drowsiness. She was thankful that the journey would be a short one. Only half of a day’s travel by train, and she would be back in the city. Her heart skittered a little, skipping a beat when an image of home crossed her mind.
Her memories of Wren City were filled with belching smoke stacks that turned the already grey skies black, foul sewage flowing at the edges of the cobblestone streets, and the hungry children—so many beggar babies. Her father’s letters told of a better world where the streets shined, and the homeless were given better living conditions. He promised that, in the five years she had been away, the city had changed.
Though Cassandra truly hoped the miraculous renaissance had helped the people, it was not why she had chosen to return. The folded and tear stained parchment, hidden within her bodice, was what had sent her scurrying to board the next train back to Wren. The scrawled handwriting and the desperation hidden behind the simple words would have been enough, but the signature is what made the trip the most urgent that she had ever taken.
Five long years, he had not answered a single letter or sought her out. She wrote him three times a week. Heartfelt words decorated the perfumed pages that she sent by the finest couriers to track him down—no matter where he might be hiding. She knew he received each one. There was always a returned slip with his awkward scrawl at the bottom. Sometimes his silence had been unbearable, but she kept writing because he never refused to sign the yellow slip that came back to her.
Then, only a few days before, the courier had returned with a letter. “Shall I wait for a reply, missus?”
With shaking hands, she accepted the note and read her name on the envelope with unbelieving eyes. “Yes, please stay.”
Cassandra gathered her skirts, forcing herself not to rip open the packet right then and there, and led the way to her small writing desk. As the courier stood by, his red jacketed back turned to her to allow privacy, she carefully broke the wax seal and drew the letter from its envelope.
My Dearest Cassandra,
My time nears. I wish to see you once more. As I feel the hours slipping by, I am more sure than I ever was that our conversations could have led to bigger things.
I love you more than words could tell.
Maxwell Lee Gauswald
Cassandra penned her response, carefully applying the wax seal that was the symbol of her house. She had no time for perfume or pleasantries as her mind whirled around the news that her dearest friend’s death was impending. She sighed, and in her mind, an image of Max appeared, dark lashes framing shimmering blue eyes as a tear streamed down his cheek.
Giving herself a mental shake, she stood from the desk and cleared her throat. As the courier turned around, she spoke with a wavering voice. “Take this, and move with speed. Time is short, fly as if Chronos’ wings were at your heels.”
Within two days, she had made her arrangements and booked her train. Every second that delayed her return to Wren caused her pain. She had left all those years before because she had not had a choice. Her father had told her that she must choose between The University and Max. A new life beyond the limits of Wren, or a battle to save those who could not be saved. In her heart, she hadn’t been revolution material. She had feared the dire consequences and losing her father’s love. The moment she learned Max was to die, she regretted that choice more than ever.
******
He sat with his head in his hands, piercing eyes locked to the small mirror propped up on the table in front of him. The reflective glass had been positioned to show nothing but the timepiece embedded just above his heart. The golden cogs and wheels, forever turning, ticked away as the counter moved much too quickly toward the end.
For weeks, he had sat in solitude, watching as his life drained away with the certainty of death. His only moments of reprieve came with Cassandra’s letters and draughts of cheap whiskey. Her sweet words had always brought joy into his world, and the last had declared that she was coming home to Wren—home to him. Time stopped speeding once the courier had brought that message. It had slowed to a nearly unbearable crawl as memories of his one true love alternated with the fear of his demise.
When Cassandra had left him, he had been determined to fight for the poor and down trodden. He wanted more for his people than hovels and hellholes, grueling jobs, and the constant reminder that they were less. In his madness of political unrest, he had not counted on the emptiness it all had once she was gone. Even the people’s victory and the rebirth of Wren City had been bitter sweet without her there. Of course, that victory had brought about the very thing that was killing him.
Max reached for the hastily written note once more, reading it aloud.
“My dearest, Max.
I have missed you. Please do nothing until I return. I shall arrive in three days time on the noon train. I will come to you.
Yours in eternity beyond time, Cassie.”
His stomach churned as he pictured her, refined and beautiful. In his mind’s eye, he saw her long, golden curls fashioned beneath a hat and her emerald eyes flashing with mirth. She had shocked the upper class society with her willful disregard for the class barriers when she had paraded the streets on his arm. Her costumes had been short with glittering cogs and gears that announced her as a member of the revolution. Beautiful and brave, his Cassandra had always been.
Folding the note, he placed it on top of all the others that he had not answered over the years and tied the leather binding tight. He could never tell her that his silence had been what won the revolution before an ounce of blood could be spilled. It had been his agreement with her father, Mayor Dalton, to allow Cassandra to leave and never contact her again that had gained the people a better life. Max had thought the man’s love for his only daughter a weakness, until he felt the loss of the girl himself.
******
At last, the train came to a halt in front of Wren Station. Tired and worn, Cassandra stepped out on to the platform to greet her father’s smiling face. He had changed since she had seen him last. He had lost his portly stature, and the lines in his face were deeper. The laughter in his eyes had faded away to leave a haunting concern.
“Cassandra, my dear.” He embraced her. “I have missed you so much, my girl.” Holding her out at arm’s length, he beamed. “You are certainly not the girl that I remember sending off to The University.”
Tears welled up in Cassandra’s eyes. “Oh, Papa! I have missed you too. Tell me, have things been well? You look greatly changed.”
Patting her gloved hand as they strolled across the lobby to the awaiting carriage, Mayor Dalton replied, “Now, don’t you worry. Child, it is just age taking its toll on me. Nothing more and nothing less. What about you? What has brought you home in such a rush after all this time?”
Her silence was poignant, she had not thought to tell her father a lie, but the truth could not possibly please him. Recovering as quickly as she could, she decided that there were some things that a father wouldn’t understand, and therefore, didn’t need to know.
“Why your letters, Papa! I just had to see how lovely our fair city has become.” She hoped that nothing in her voice would tell him otherwise.
If Mayor Dalton had any doubts, he was unable to voice them. A terrible coughing fit overtook his body, and he faltered. Grasping his chest, right hand over his heart, the man coughed until sweat beaded on his brow, and his cheeks turned a purplish color.
“Papa! Are you okay?” Watching her father wheeze and hack struck fear in Cassandra’s heart, and she instantly felt guilty for her omission of the truth.
Straightening up, the mayor looked at his daughter with teary eyes. His voice was hoarse and breathless as he insisted, “Yes, love. Quite all right, indeed. Just something in the
air. Let’s go.”
A row of horse drawn carriages and one shining, miraculous machine sat in front of the station. At The University, she had heard of the new carriages that needed no horses and ran on steam, but she had not seen one. The atmosphere there was to study the new technologies but embrace tradition. Only the nouveau riche drove such contraptions, or took to the skies in the airships to mingle among the commoners in shopping centers that floated among the clouds.
Cassandra couldn’t resist the urge to run one gloved hand over the shining red paint as she waited for Cordon, her father’s manservant, to open the door to the carriage. Accepting the elderly man’s hand was a matter of training, but had she depended on him to hold her weight, they would have both fallen. Cordon had been ancient when she was a child, and she often thought of him as the man time had forgotten.
Once she and her father were comfortably positioned on the ebony leather seats, Cordon lit the pilot light beneath the hood and boarded as well. To her amazement, the servant pulled a knob and released a long, wooden lever, and the vehicle trudged forward faster than a horse’s gallop.
Cassie gasped, pressing her hand to the lace at her collar, and her father laughed. Recovered from his fit, he looked younger when he beamed in amusement. His hand, soft and wrinkled, clasped hers just as he had done when they had taken the hackney coaches in her youth. Though the moment was one of joy, the lack of strength in his grip gave her pause.
As they sped down the newly cobbled streets of Wren, Cassandra alternated between marveling at the town that had changed so drastically and the father she barely recognized. Five years earlier, the town had been crumbling into a mass of writhing filth, and her father had been a powerful man with life emanating from his person. After the revolution, the houses were freshly painted, even the smallest homes had diminutive patches of green grass out front, and the air smelled as clean as that of The University. Mayor Dalton, on the other hand, had dwindled from the giant he seemed into a frail and sick human. She pondered his decline with confusion.
Cogs in Time Anthology Page 9