Shadows on the Moon

by Zoe Marriott

  I woke later to find the lamp extinguished. Moonlight fell through the piercings in the window screens, splashing silver onto Mother’s back as she lay curled up on the opposite side of the palanquin.

  I thought she was asleep. Then I heard a muffled noise — an unfamiliar noise. A sob. She was crying. I shifted onto my side, groaning a little with the effort, as I reached out to her. She stiffened, her narrow shoulders hunching up defensively, as if she expected a blow to fall.

  I hesitated, my hand curling into a fist. Then I settled back down, snuffling a little, as if I had only been moving in my sleep. She sighed — in what sounded like relief — and I saw furtive movements as the tears were wiped quickly away. Then, pulling a pillow closer, she turned onto her back. I closed my eyes, so no telltale gleam of moonlight falling on my face would give me away.

  She sighed again and gave an odd, hiccuping little laugh. And said Terayama-san’s name.

  I pressed my knuckles to my mouth and bit down. The sound of my mother’s voice in that moment made me want to flee, to hide in some silent, safe place far away. I wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. What was happening?

  My eyes stayed open for a long time that night, long after Mother’s slow, deep breathing told me that sleep had claimed her. I fixed my eyes on the pale blur of her dreaming face and tried to tell myself I had nothing to fear.

  My new room was high on the second floor. I had never even been in a house that had more than one floor before. I had a balcony, and when I pushed back the screens, I could look out over the still green lake or the forested hills. If the view bored me, I could walk in Terayama-san’s enormous gardens, where there were ferny streams with half-moon bridges and ponds with white koi darting in the shadows.

  I had a maid of my own. Her name was Mai, and she was five years older than me, and moved as quietly and quickly as those white fish. Each morning and each evening, Mai would brush my hair without snagging a single strand and hum gently to herself. I would listen to her soft voice and wonder if, somewhere deep inside, she was screaming, too.

  It had been real. I had been real. I knew what had happened. I saw it whenever I closed my eyes.

  Yet I had no proof. No one but me had seen. No one but me seemed to care.

  In that quiet, golden mansion, surrounded by strangers, I felt as if my old life had never existed. As if the low, thatched house, drowsing among the apple and cherry trees, had been no more than some odd fantasy, and my dear, beloved father and cousin had never even lived, let alone died in front of me. Had I really screamed and wept and run and hid? Had I really been Hoshima Suzume, of the tangled hair and untidy obi and skinny, bruised legs?

  That me — the real me — was trapped in a dark place behind my eyes. Nakamura Suzume was in command of my mouth and my body.

  Nakamura Suzume was quiet and respectful. She did not run or click her tongue or get into mischief. She lowered her eyes modestly and blushed. When Terayama-san smiled, she drew the image of Aimi’s sweet, innocent face into place over her dry, cold lips and smiled back, for she knew that Terayama-san was all that stood between her and exile and death and darkness, and she was afraid.

  When, a mere six weeks after we had arrived at the home of my father’s dearest friend, Nakamura Suzume’s mother told her that Terayama-san had asked her to marry him, and that her mother had said yes, Nakamura Suzume said, “I am so pleased for you both.”

  And deep inside, the real Suzume, who had told herself that such a thing could never happen, that Terayama-san and Mother would never do it, screamed louder and louder.

  The morning after I had been informed of their engagement, I had an accident. A silly, clumsy accident, nothing more. As I peeled fruit at breakfast, my knife slipped, opening a long, shallow cut on my palm.

  Blood welled up as I stared in shock, and pain sang through my hand. Then there was a rush of . . . something. Something like happiness, or peace, or relief. It made me dizzy.

  “Suzume.” My mother reached around the table and caught my arm. “What have you done?”

  “It is nothing,” I said softly.

  “Wrap it in this,” Terayama-san said, passing me a cloth. He sent the serving woman to fetch a girl from the kitchens who knew how to dress wounds, and when she arrived, she cleaned the cut and applied a salve and assured my mother that it would not scar.

  Terayama-san sat back with a nod. “There,” he said. “There is nothing to worry about.”

  “Be more careful,” my mother said severely. “You could have —”

  “Don’t fuss, my dear. Suzu-chan is sorry.” I would have been grateful for the interruption, except that he did not look at me, did not see me. He interrupted not because he wished to shield me from Mother’s fussing but because he wished all her attention to be his. Skillfully he drew her into a conversation that, as usual, excluded me.

  For once I did not listen to them with resentment. I was listening to the quiet inside me. For the first time in weeks, the screaming had stopped.

  “I will go to the stables and look at the new mare,” Terayama-san announced casually a little while later.

  “Then perhaps I should look at the fabric for my new gown. . . .” Mother said, half to herself, a look of secret happiness on her face. I guessed the new gown was expensive. Far more expensive than anything my father had been able to afford for her.

  Terayama-san’s eyes sharpened, and his face went blank. “Do you not wish to come with me?”

  Mother blushed, a little flustered, but not frightened. “Oh! I — I do not pretend to know much of horses. I do not think I would be useful.”

  “Your opinion is always useful to me,” he said, gaze fixed, unblinking. I was reminded again of the cat at the mouse hole. Any time Mother displayed lack of interest in Terayama-san, he acted as if she had challenged him. The more she pulled back, the more he wanted her with him. It was as if it were a game. He stalked his prey carefully, giving it the illusion of freedom without ever truly risking its escape.

  When had this game begun? I wondered. In the ruins of Father’s house, when Terayama-san had offered so generously to save us? Or before that? Perhaps it had been during Mother’s mysterious visit to Terayama-san’s house, before she had returned home to find everything destroyed.

  The visit she had found time for when she should have been visiting her aunt, or at home with her husband and family celebrating her daughter’s birthday. The visit that was supposed to have been here at his house but which none of his servants seemed to know anything about.

  “If you would really wish for my company,” Mother said finally, smiling and pleased.

  She had never looked so at my father. But then, I realized, my father had never wanted her with him when he worked. He had shut himself in his study and demanded complete peace, and Mother had been left to the business of the house alone. The only person who had been allowed to interrupt Father while he worked was me.

  At her agreement, the tension left Terayama-san’s face. “Of course. Come along, my dear.”

  They left, Terayama-san holding Mother’s arm with a grip that could have been possessive or protective. Alone and with nothing else to do, I decided to take a walk in the garden.

  The parasol cast a pink shade over my face as I left the shadow of the house and went into the sun. The garden was very quiet: no servant children running errands or cats sunning themselves. No escaped chickens. Normally the quiet here bothered me, but now I did not let it. I reveled in it. I felt distant, as if nothing could touch me. In this mood, I was able to run back over this morning’s scene calmly.

  How much of Mother’s apparent desire for Terayama-san was fear that, unless she pleased him, he would cast us out and we would starve or be killed? And how much was because Terayama-san flattered her, paid attention to her, demanded her attention, as my father had never done?

  Was it my place to judge? Terayama-san had saved us. I must try harder to be grateful and fond of him, as Mother expected.

>   From the corner of my eye I detected a movement, a human movement. This happened rarely enough — Terayama-san’s servants were so well trained, they seemed to have the ability to be invisible — that I turned to look. A servant, a bent old man, was framed in a circular opening in the wall that hid the kitchens from the rest of the grounds. He was drawing water from the well there.

  My parasol hit the ground and tumbled away in the breeze. I flew down the path and through the circular gate, crying out, “Youta!”

  My impetuous greeting did not make him drop his wooden pail or even flinch. He calmly set his burden down and smiled at me. “Little Mistress. You have grown.”

  “Youta — oh — how — what are you doing here?” I babbled, flustered and out of breath.

  He indicated a little stone bench against the wall. “Will you sit with me?”

  I laughed as I sat; I was so pleased to see him that I could not keep it in. “I have thought about you. All the time. I hoped you had recovered and were doing well. But I don’t understand, Youta. You would not let me tell my mother and Terayama-san about you and what you did, but you came here anyway.”

  “Ah, well,” he said, sitting next to me. “I thought it might be better — simpler — if Terayama-sama did not know the details of what happened.”

  “Simpler? What do you mean by that?” I asked slowly.

  “Nothing, really. Sometimes I have feelings that I cannot explain, but I have found it best to pay attention to them. Let us just say that I did not wish for their thanks. I made my own way here and gained employment in the kitchens without telling anyone where I had worked before. Cindermen are not usually required to provide references.” He smiled a little.

  It seemed presumptuous to ask, but Youta had already hinted at it, and I wanted to know. “Did you come all this way for me?”

  “I have an interest in you now, do I not?”

  It struck me for the first time that Youta spoke keigo: formal, educated speech. That seemed very strange for a man who worked in the kitchens. I wanted to ask about it, but instinct held me back.

  “I thank you,” I said at last. “I have no other friends here.”

  “Except your mother,” he reminded me gently.

  I laughed again, but this time the sound was harsh and bitter.

  Youta reached out — a little hesitantly, I thought — and touched the back of my hand with the tip of his index finger. It left a dark smudge. “I am here,” he said. “I sleep in the kitchen at night, and no one else is there. If you ever need me . . .”

  I could not reply. My throat had gone tight. I sniffed and nodded.

  He stood, picking up his pail again. “Good day to you, Little Mistress.”

  He walked back toward the kitchens. I sat for a moment, blinking rapidly, then went to find my parasol.

  The feeling of peace stayed for most of the rest of the day, but by breakfast the following morning, I could hear the real Suzume starting to talk again, her voice angry and raging. My head ached with trying to ignore her.

  After dinner, Mother, Terayama-san, and I gathered in one of the rooms overlooking the gardens. They were discussing their wedding trip, talking and laughing — Mother delicately flirting. As the evening went on, a ruddy color began to darken Terayama-san’s cheeks, as if he had been drinking — but he had not. The heat, the hunger, reappeared in his face. Cat. Mouse.

  I plucked at the edge of the bandage on my hand. I hardly needed it, really, but Mai had insisted it stay on for another day at least. I pulled at the loose threads, winding them around my fingertips until the ends of my fingers went purple.

  Something is wrong between them. She doesn’t see it. Doesn’t see the look in his eyes — or doesn’t care. Doesn’t she remember how Father looked at her? Doesn’t she remember him, miss him, at all?

  “Terayama-san,” I said suddenly, trying to drown the screaming out, “may I ask something?”

  I looked up from my bandage to see my mother and Terayama-san both staring at me as if they had forgotten I was in the room.

  They wish you weren’t in the room, the real Suzume said. I pushed her voice away and continued: “I am sorry if I have disturbed your conversation. I was lost in my own thoughts.”

  “You have not disturbed us,” Terayama-san told me. His voice was perfectly friendly, perfectly sincere. His eyes looked through me as if I were rice paper on a screen. “What did you want to ask, Suzu-chan?”

  That is not my name! My name is Suzume, and no one, not even my father, ever shortened it.

  “Before,” I began cautiously, forcing myself to sound calm, “I was very fond of music. I wondered if I might be allowed to take up the shamisen again.”

  “No,” said my mother before Terayama-san could answer. The blunt interjection was so unexpected that we both looked at her with surprise.

  “But, Mother, why?”

  “You must learn to leave things from the past in the past,” she said, “and be happy in your new life instead. You have much to be grateful for. I do not want to hear you speak of it again.”

  Terayama-san nodded at that, already looking away. “Your mother is right, Suzu-chan.”

  They went back to their talk as if I had never spoken. A moment later, I stood and left the room.

  My feet shush-shush-shushed on the tatami mats as I went down the corridor. I was walking too quickly. Almost running. Mother would have scolded me. But Mother was not here, was she? She was back there, with him, leaving her past behind. Leaving me behind. I would run if I wanted.

  I put back the screen to my room, startling Mai, who was kneeling in the corner, folding clothes into a cedarwood chest.

  “Nakamura-sama?”

  “You may leave,” I said coldly. Never would I have spoken to a servant at home like that. Never — before they were all killed. “I do not feel well.”

  She climbed to her feet, coming forward. “Oh, then I —”

  “I do not want help. I want to be alone.”

  “Yes, Nakamura-sama.”

  I slammed the screen shut behind her and went to the square recess in the wall, the bottom part of which was taken up with a cabinet with a sliding door. There was a blue cloisonné vase on top of the cabinet that Mai had filled with delicate, scented golden orchids this morning. I wanted to pick up the vase and fling it across the room, but instead I opened the cabinet and drew out a long box of gleaming cherrywood. Terayama-san’s gift to me on the day he and Mother had announced their betrothal.

  The box was filled with hair ornaments — kanzashi pins and combs: coral, mother-of-pearl, silver, ivory, and tortoiseshell. They were more beautiful than anything I had ever owned before. Every time I looked at them, I remembered my old favorite with its little white bone flowers, and sliding it into Aimi’s hair that morning, and the way Aimi’s hair had swirled in the grass where she had fallen.

  My hands shook as I selected a long, sharp pin. How to clean it? I lifted it to my mouth and sucked it, grimacing at the metallic taste.

  I held the pin between my teeth as I rolled up my sleeve and selected an area at the side of my elbow, then I touched the now warm pin to the skin and pushed it in.

  I hissed, tears springing to my eyes as I dragged the sharp end across my arm. Tiny beads of bright red welled up against the white skin. Then the most glorious sense of relief filled me; I let out a long, ecstatic sigh. I had done it. It worked.

  This must be why Moon Priests starve and beat themselves, I thought. The pain did something to you: set you free. Gave you control. I had caused the pain. I had chosen the spot, and I had applied the pin. The pain was mine, and no one could take it from me. It made me feel . . . real.

  I used one of the cloths set aside for my monthly bleed to wrap my arm. I would remove the cloth before Mai came to help me undress for my bath, and if she noticed the mark, I would say I had caught my arm on something. No one would guess. No one would know. I cleaned the pin, dried it on the edge of my kimono, and set it back in the box. My
hands were steady now as I put everything away.

  How much easier life was once you learned how to lie. I had gotten into trouble by speaking out of turn, arguing and answering back so many times. Not anymore. Now I would do what I wanted, and no one would stop me.

  Mother looked beautiful in white. Of course, women always look beautiful on their wedding day. Someone told me that once.

  “Terayama-san is a lucky dog.”

  I didn’t blink as the man behind me spoke but kept my eyes on my neatly bended knees as the Moon Priests chanted in low voices and the thick blue incense billowed across the room. Most of Terayama-san’s friends seemed to believe that because I was still and quiet, I was also deaf. I was growing used to it, though. If I pretended I did not hear, I did not have to be embarrassed, and that spared me the need to blush. I had never known how to blush until recently. Yet another newly acquired skill.

  A second man chuckled. “Lucky? My dear friend, she is thirty at least, and has not a copper piece of her own. Her family are not even well connected. She is the lucky one.”

  “So old? With that face?”

  “Oh, she may even be older. Have you seen her daughter? The girl must be fourteen or fifteen.”

  “There’s a daughter? If she looks anything like Yukiko-san, I should have thought he would marry her instead. If he’s after an heir, that is.”

  “Ah, well, there is a romantic story behind it all. Apparently Terayama-san wooed the lady long ago, but she chose another: picked the penniless poet over the wealthy eldest son. From what Terayama-san hints, she soon regretted it, but by then it was too late. So the wise Terayama-san bided his time, watched her from afar, and when the first husband finally had the grace to surrender his soul to the Moon, Terayama-san swooped in and got her straightaway.”