Where am I now? It’s so dark here, so cold. I’m practically freezing.
He examined his surroundings by the starlight. The muddy lake was so large that much of it faded into the dark distance and he could not see the far shoreline. Behind him a wide expanse of reeds and other swamp grass extended to the edge of his vision as well. There was one irregularity: up ahead and to the right he could see a larger lump of darkness, like a small forest. A faint light came from its center. Wataru stared at it a long time but couldn’t tell what it was.
Wataru hugged himself, trying to stay warm, and began to walk. May as well go and see what I find. Better than staying here and dying of pneumonia. Walking will keep me warm, and maybe dawn will come soon.
The closer he got to the forest, the better he could see the object that caught his eye. It was a lantern, or maybe even a torch.
The cool, muddy flats seemed completely devoid of life. The silent night was punctuated by the soft cooing of wild birds. He could make out a small, triangular roof among the trees. It was a hut, somewhat smaller than the one where he had first met Wayfinder Lau. Even though it was partially obscured by trees, Wataru could tell the light he’d seen in the distance was emanating from its window.
He knocked on the door and called out, “Hello? Is anybody home?”
There was no answer. He knocked at the door again, announcing himself as a traveler on the road who had lost his way. There was the sound of faint footsteps, and the door opened inward. A small robed individual peered out—the robe’s hood completely masked the person’s identity.
“Sorry to call so late at night,” Wataru said, bowing his head. “I’ve lost my way, and I saw your light so I thought—if it’s not too much trouble, might I rest here a moment? Perhaps you could help me find my way?”
The voice that came from under the hood was surprisingly soft. “You’re wounded.”
It’s a woman.
Wataru looked at the fingers holding open the door. They were white and slender.
“Please, come in. That wound of yours needs tending to.”
The woman stepped to the side and let Wataru into the small room beyond. A fire was burning brightly in the fireplace. A lamp sat in the window. There was a small rocking chair—still rocking slightly—next to the fireplace where the woman had most likely been sitting a moment before.
She motioned for Wataru to sit on a small wooden stool. She immediately began to tend his injury. A while later, she brought him a mug of something hot and warm.
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
The woman nodded, her face still hidden in the shadow of her hood.
“You should change. I’m afraid I don’t have clothes your size, though.”
“It’s okay.”
“Perhaps just a shirt, then. I believe I have one large enough.”
Wataru was glad for her charity. Grabbing his muddy shirt and the bloodsoaked bandages, the woman stepped outside.
The inside of the hut was sparsely furnished. A small basket sat next to the rocking chair with balls of wool dyed jet black. A half-knit garment was nearby. Comfortable now, and growing more curious, Wataru looked inside the basket. The clothes were tiny—like something a child might wear. He noticed a pair of socks, also small. Maybe she has a child?
Still, that seemed odd. The half-knitted garments in the basket, and the socks, were all black. Who gives their child black clothes to wear? Of course, her clothes were all black too.
“Excuse me,” Wataru asked when the woman returned. “Would you, by any chance, happen to be a sorcerer?”
The woman stopped. She seemed to be staring at Wataru.
“It’s just that, you’re wearing that hood. Maybe, perhaps, you’re a starseer? Are you doing research out here?”
The hood tilted, as though the woman was looking down at the floor. Then she slowly walked over to the rocking chair, sat, and said in a small voice, “It is perhaps best that you do not know much of me.” Her voice sounded sad, somehow. “It will soon be dawn. Already, the sky in the east grows light. Go to the far side of this woods and you will find a small road that will take you to the town of Tearsheaven. Speak to the mayor there. He shows kindness to travelers upon the road such as yourself.”
“Very well,” Wataru said, bowing his head slightly. “Thank you for everything. I’m sorry to have pried. But, really, I was in quite a fix, so thank you again. I just feel odd not even knowing your name or what you look like, and…”
Quizzically, the woman tilted her head slightly to the side. Then she lifted her white hands and drew back her hood.
Deep inside his heart, Wataru screamed.
Rikako Tanaka!
His father’s lover. The reason his father abandoned Wataru and his mother. The woman who came to their house and said it was all his mother’s fault. The similarity was uncanny. She was ghastly thin.
“Is that better?”
The woman’s voice was soft, gentle. She had not a trace of a smile on her face, and none of Rikako’s arrogance and aggression. But still, the voice sounded so much like hers. It was even possible to imagine that this was what Rikako’s voice sounded like, were she ever to speak softly.
“So long have I worn my clothes of grief, I had forgotten I was even wearing a hood.”
Wataru couldn’t speak. This, he thought, was a good thing. He had no confidence he would be able to say anything useful at the moment.
“Is something wrong? You seem quite startled,” the woman said, taking a half step toward him. Wataru took a step backward.
“My…” the woman put a hand to her cheek. “Have I frightened you, somehow? If that is so, I apologize. But please tell me, why?”
I apologize… Those were words he could never imagine Rikako Tanaka ever saying as long as she lived. This is Vision. This isn’t the real world. She can’t be here.
“I-I’m sorry,” Wataru said, shaking his head. “You look so much like someone I knew, it startled me.”
“I see.” The woman nodded but did not smile, not even a little. It occurred to Wataru that he was looking at a person very deep in grief.
“You said clothes of grief…are you sad?”
The woman quietly walked over to the window and put out the lamp. Then she nodded. “These wetlands, and this lake…are called the Swamp of Grief.”
Even with the lamp out, a dim light came through the window. It was nearly dawn. Wataru walked over to stand by her and look out on the black surface of the muddy lake.
“Only those in the deepest grief are permitted to live here on the shore. When our grief is gone, so too must we leave the swamp. While here, we must wear only clothes of black. When we leave, we throw these clothes into the lake.”
“And you’re not allowed to smile, I take it?”
“That’s right. While we remain.”
“Who decided all this?”
“It is the law in Tearsheaven.”
The woman looked down and rubbed her belly with one hand. “I used to live in town. Perhaps someday I shall return…”
Looking at her hand, something clicked. I don’t believe it. “Are you… pregnant?”
The woman nodded deeper. “Yes…”
Another thing she has in common with Rikako Tanaka. Is this a coincidence? Is there some sort of weird synchronization between Vision and the real world?
“What is it?” the woman asked, looking into Wataru’s eyes. “You’re sweating. I hope you’ve not caught a cold walking along the lake.”
Hearing the concern in her voice, Wataru tried to rein in his wildly roaming thoughts. This isn’t her. She’s too kind. She must’ve lived an entirely different life from that woman.
Something else didn’t fit, though. A baby should be the happiest thing in the world. Yet here she was, sunken in grief. I know, Wataru thought, I’ll bet the father of this child died. That’s why she’s here. That has to be it.
“I’m sure you’ll be better soon,” Wataru said, though he had no reason to believ
e she would. Still it gave him confidence to find that he could be gentle with this woman. She’s not her.
The woman looked down at Wataru. Just then, the rising sun lit her face, casting a golden light on Rikako’s features. Wataru saw the reflected gleam in her eyes, and again the anger rose inside him, and again he forced it back down. No. No! It’s not her!
“You’re kind to say that. Thank you.” The woman rubbed Wataru’s shoulder gently, then pushed him toward the door. “But, you should leave. And please, do not tell the people in Tearsheaven of the kind words you gave me.”
She closed the door without even saying goodbye.
Wataru walked around the hut, finding a small path leading out of the woods on the other side. The path wasn’t as wet as it had been on the shore of the muddy lake, and so Wataru walked, listening to the good-morning calls of little birds in the trees around him. Out of the woods, the road became wider, a path with ruts left from the weight of darbaba carts. Wataru came up on a sign.
Nearing Tearsheaven
Just below the neatly printed block letters announcing the town, someone had scrawled graffiti:
Happy? Stay away!
Chapter 22
Tearsheaven
Nearing was an understatement.
The town sat in the middle of a large, even field, encircled by a pretty white stone fence. On the side facing the road was a gate much smaller than the one at Gasara. A heavily built watchman sat atop a small platform by the gate, smoking a cigarette.
Something seemed different to Wataru about this town from the other places he had visited in Vision, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. As he was thinking about it, the watchman called out in a booming voice. “You over there, boy! Have you business in Tearsheaven?”
Rubbing his hurting leg, Wataru thought. The graffiti he had seen on the sign was fresh in his mind. Am I happy?
In the end, he replied simply, “I’m not sure.” It was the truth. “I got lost and—I’m not even really sure where this is. Am I still in the country of Bog?”
The watchman stuck his cigarette in his mouth and leapt down to the ground. He walked toward Wataru. “Not even close,” he said. “This here’s Arikita—though we’re a sight closer to the border with Bog than we are to the capital. Where did you come from again?”
“From outside Lyris.”
The watchman’s mouth gaped open, and his cigarette fell to the ground. He was a beastkin, with clear blue eyes. “That’s quite a journey! Don’t tell me you walked all that way on that leg? Looks like you got yourself into a bit of a scrape.”
When Wataru explained that a cyclone had picked him up and deposited him in the Swamp of Grief, the watchman’s mouth gaped even wider. But it didn’t seem to be the story of the cyclone that was the source of his amazement.
“The Swamp of Grief, eh?” he said in a low growl, whiskers twitching. “Did you run into anyone by the lakeside there, boy?”
Wataru mentioned how the woman dressed in black had helped him. He had only made it halfway through his story when the watchman practically howled with astonishment. “A hut? You’re telling me he’s built her a hut? Who’d have thought Yacom had it in him!” The beastkin looked at Wataru. “Boy, welcome to Tearsheaven. The mayor would like to meet you, I’m sure.”
The watchman took one look at Wataru’s limp and offered him a piggyback ride, which Wataru gladly accepted. Upon entering the town, the reasons for its novelty became readily apparent. The buildings were flat. The roofs were perfectly level, with wide troughs running along their edges. In addition, they were all built extremely close together.
“Interesting construction you have here,” Wataru said from the watchman’s back.
“I suppose it would seem that way to someone who knew nothing of this place,” the watchman said, smiling. “These are built to catch every last drop of rain that falls. We filter it, and filter it again to make our tears.”
“Tears?”
“The purest water in the world. Used for the finest medicines and the most expensive perfumes.”
The mayor’s residence was in the very middle of a cluster of cube-like buildings. To get there, they had to actually open the doors to many of the surrounding houses and walk through them. Each time they went in a door, Wataru expected to be walking into someone’s living room.
“Certain houses are designated for public passage, on account of the town being built this way,” the watchman explained. That explained the lack of significant furniture in the houses they walked through. Still, when they reached the office of the mayor, it too was rather bare—hardly different from the public passage houses they had come through. The only furniture was a simple wooden desk and chair, and a small table.
“Greetings!” said a waterkin with a large red fin sticking out from the top of his head. “I am Mag, the mayor of Tearsheaven.”
As it was clear that the important posts in this town were taken not by ankha but by other species, Wataru felt secure in relating his encounter with the followers of the Old God at Triankha Hospital. He related everything up to his meeting with the woman in black in the swamp. But he did not mention the kind words he had given her, as she had requested.
“A surprising tale, indeed,” Mayor Mag said, knocking himself on the head with large webbed hands. “And you, a Highlander at your young age. Impressive, most impressive. But you must be worried for your friends.”
Continuing, he said, “Head west from here, and just over the border to Bog you will find the town of Sakawa. The waterkin there do more than transport goods, they also trade in information. Ask around, and you’ll be sure to find your missing friends.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll go there as soon as I can.”
“No,” the mayor said, “I think you’d best stay and mend your leg first. We have the best medicines and poultices here, you know. Medicine brewed using our tears is better than any you can buy in other parts.”
Wataru wondered if all mayors were like this: part politician, part salesman.
“Mayor,” said the watchman suddenly, “perhaps I should fetch Yacom’s wife?”
“Wataru here might be a fine Highlander,” said the major, “but he’s still a boy. I would not involve him in this affair.”
“It’s just, not a soul has gone to see that woman since we sent her out. If Wataru were to tell his story…”
“Sent her out?” Wataru asked. “Was she exiled from the village for some reason?” He remembered her saying that she used to be a resident of Tearsheaven.
The mayor hung his head sorrowfully a moment, then said, “Very well, Wataru, I’d like you to come with me. Don’t worry. It’s not far.”
The watchman went back to his post, and the mayor took Wataru by his hand. They passed through one house, and when they opened the next door, the mayor called out in a bright voice, “Morning, ladies, how does the day find you?”
They appeared to be in a hospital. Six simple beds were lined up in a bright, warm room, five of which were occupied. The occupants were all women of different races.
“Ah, Sara—here to see your mother?”
In the nearest bed lay an ankha woman. Her face was pale and she was horribly thin. Watching over her was a girl with dark eyes—young enough to be in kindergarten. The mayor gave the girl a hug. “Sara, you’ve grown into quite the beauty, haven’t you!” he said, rubbing her cheek. “I’d sure like to see you happier though. The sun is up. You should be outside, playing.”
The girl was very cute. Their eyes met, and Wataru smiled, but the girl’s eyes were cold.
“I’m sorry, Mag,” the woman in the bed said in a fragile voice. Her head never left the pillow. “I have gotten much better, but still…”
“Never you mind about that. The last thing you want to do is trouble yourself, Satami. The only medicine in this world better than one made from our tears is time itself.”
The mayor sat Sara on the bed and patted her on the head. “Well now,” the ma
yor continued with a smile, “I’m off to show our little guest here around. Listen to what the doctor says, and rest up well. Agreed?”
Wataru followed the mayor back to his offices. When he sat down he noticed that the mayor’s eyes were as dark as the little girl Sara’s had been.
“Now, Wataru,” the mayor began. “The woman you met on the shore of the lake in the Swamp of Grief is named Lili Yannu. Three months ago, for various reasons, I cast her out of this village. She may not return until I, and the rest of the residents, permit it. Nor may she go elsewhere. There is no other town that would take in a castaway from Tearsheaven.”
“What crime did she commit to have this happen to her?”
Mayor Mag sighed. The fin on top of his head wobbled to the side. “Before I tell you that, I should tell you a bit about the history of Tearsheaven.”
As it turned out, Tearsheaven was known as the Town of Sorrow long before the formation of the United Southern Nations.
“There is little different in our lives here from that of other places. What is different is that all of the residents here once lived elsewhere. They only came here because, at some point in their life, they knew such sadness that they wished to die. You see, here, they have a chance to heal. This town serves as a sort of hospital for the heart, you might say. Those who live here stay only until their illness is cured. That is why our houses and furnishings are so simple.”
Once their sorrow was cured, residents could leave anytime. “And we never see them again,” the mayor explained. “The reasons for our residents’ sorrows are many. Some lost those whom they loved, or were betrayed by those whom they trusted. We do not inquire too deeply about these matters. We only live together, help each other, and wait until time heals our wounds. Some leave after only half a year, others after ten. The depth of each sorrow is different.”
The start of the local industry, making tears out of rainwater, was a relatively recent event.
“We began producing tears in earnest only thirty years ago. The mayor before myself, a bright fellow, was the one who noticed the purity of the local rainfall, and he realized also the value of simple labor that still requires constant attention in the mending of sorrows.”
Brave Story Page 46