by Hiromi Goto
“Just imagine two different-coloured socks in a dryer,” White Cat said drolly. “A very common analogy, but it is adequate. The socks spin around, it all looks random, but eventually they will come into contact. Like that, if you will.”
A small smile touched Cracker’s lips. “Ms. Wei?” she asked.
“Hmph?” Ming Wei’s eyes were closed.
“Can I come and visit you sometimes? When you’re not busy?”
“Hmph,” Ming Wei responded. “You can dust the tins in the store and sweep the floors.”
Melanie shook her head. “I’ll put on the kettle.”
“You have to pay me minimum wage,” Cracker countered.
Ming Wei widened her eyes, outraged. “Ms. Wei is doing Cracker a favour by offering work experience! This she needs to graduate from high school!”
“High school!” Cracker scoffed.
“No school, no visits with Ming Wei!” Ms. Wei said sternly.
“Geez.” Cracker slouched. “You’re such a hard-ass.”
“And no more swearing! Wahhhh! Such a mouth on this one!” Ming Wei, shaking her head, returned to her chair at the table. “She has too much heat. Yin deficiency. She needs a soup. And lessons in manners.”
A warmth began glowing inside Cracker’s chest. She found herself standing beside the large window that overlooked the street outside. The purple sky was turning indigo, the street lights glowing orange.
She could hear Ms. Wei and Melanie murmuring at the table. The rise and fall of emotions and familiarity. It sounded nice.
She ran her fingers down the curve of White Cat’s furry back.
His tail lashed. “The nerve!” he exclaimed. But he didn’t leap away. He began to purr, a little unevenly, as if he were ill-practised.
Cracker continued stroking the cat as the night bloomed around them. His fur was very soft.
Epilogue
A haphazard cluster of roundhouses stood upon a small open field near a dirty stream. The dung heap, piled high with offal, excrement, broken pottery and bones, filled the air with a tremendous stench.
Packs of hairless animals, glowing with larval luminescence, slipped from shadow to shadow, the sound of trickling childish giggles following after them.
From the opening of one of the roundhouses a dim, pale grey light flickered. The perpetual dusk was torn by the sounds of a woman’s screams.
Pain, suffering, she screamed, off and on, for several hours. She continued screaming until she was ragged.
Then … laughter … weak, weary, but laughter. Her voice, happiness tinged with sorrow.
A baby squawked. Gasped for air. Breathing, the newly born began to wail.
The grey light flickering from the entrance began to gutter. Dimming. The roundhouse fell to darkness.
“Oh, no.” The woman’s voice was anguished.
Out of the darkness, sapphire motes began to shine, one after the other. A myriad glow of minute lights, cascading shards of blue inside the home. Deep-blue rays escaped through cracks and seams, shone upon the ground outside. The rich saturated light throbbed with intensity and poured out the opening of the roundhouse.
The rays that spilled out of the shelter began to shrink as a brilliant blue hinotama, the size of a human heart, floated out through the hole in the ceiling and hovered above the decrepit shelter.
“Oh!” The weak voice was tinged with wonder.
The sapphire hinotama floated back down through the hole in the roof, re-entering the roundhouse. The blue light shone out from the seams and the opening of the home once more.
Small shadowed figures crept toward the shelter, creeping, hopping, drawn to the wondrous glow.
A second light, pale green, the colour of spring leaves, flared into being.
The dark shadows gasped with delight.
Two vibrant hinotama, sapphire blue and leaf green, floated outside. Their brilliant light was miraculous and the creatures raised their hands above their heads as if they were children trying to catch the stars.
The two orbs of light zigzagged across the dark sky, chasing each other, spiralling up to fall back down, so that the sapphire and green light would play upon the creatures who reached for them with such
The brilliant hinotama shot across the dark skies and disappeared.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The transformation of an idea to a published book is, simultaneously, miraculous and mundane. But it is always accomplished because of the support, kindnesses and professionalism of so many people. I am capable of writing books because of the many communities that sustain me. I am so very grateful.
I am blessed with the presence of Koji and Sae in my life. The most amazing and beautiful things I’ve learned, I’ve learned through you. My writer-guardian angels: Chris and Nozomi, for sending me a laptop, eternal gratitude. Chris, thank you so much for early story feedback. And to ever-supportive Naomi and Kyoko; thank you for being there when my creative process falters.
My dear beautiful friends, comrades-in-writing, feminists, activists, bad-asses & community family; thank you for laughter, passion, attitude, comfort, sharing meals, raising of cups and all that spilleth over. Blessings to Susanda Yee, Larissa Lai, Rita Wong, Joy Russell, Christine Stewart, Ivana Vukov, Graeme Comyn, Eva Tai, Edward Parker, Tamotsu Tongu, Kyo Maclear, David Bateman, Janice Williamson, Kris Calhoun, Nisi Shawl, Eileen Gunn, Roy Miki, Baco Ohama, Jean Baird & George Bowering, The James Tiptree Jr. Award Motherboard, Powell Street Festival Society, and Jeff & Ann VanderMeer.
Call-out to the Writing Cheerleading Squad: Nalo, Jennifer, Pamela, Larissa, Martin, David!
I am so thankful for the many people who ensure that the professional side of writing is as fruitful as the creative side. Gratitude to my amazing agents, Sally Harding, and everyone else at the excellent Cooke Agency! I’m also so very blessed with the wonderful people at Penguin Canada: thank you so much to Lynne Missen and (interim editor) Caitlin Drake, Vimala Jeevanandam, David Ross, story editor extraordinaire Jennifer Glossop and keen-eyed copy editor Karen Alliston. Rapturous joy-gratitude to Jillian Tamaki for the gorgeous cover art and interior illustrations, and a special thank you to photographer Kiely Ramos.
For generous funding/support during the long process of seeing a book come into fruition I am ever so grateful to the University of Alberta Department of English and Film Studies Writer-in-Residency Program, Canada Council for the Arts, and BC Arts. Tasukari mashita.