by Zoe Marriott
On the floor above, another female form stood in profile to me, her head bent. She was very close to the screen, and I could see the bony points of her elbows as she hugged her own chest. The pose was one of utter loneliness, of terrible sorrow.
A large male shadow approached her and held out his arms. After a moment’s hesitation, the woman went to him. He gathered her up and embraced her.
It was the window of my mother’s room.
A strange, high-pitched noise filled the air around me. A kind of keening, like some little animal caught in a trap. Dying.
It wasn’t until my knees buckled that I realized the noise was coming from me.
My ribs seemed to clench around my lungs. I could not breathe. Sobs piled up in my chest like stones, unable to escape. I knelt there in the dark, in the dirt, alone.
I pulled at my kimono sleeve until my arm was exposed, and with dirty, ragged fingernails, ripped open my skin.
The days turned into weeks, the weeks into a month and then another. It was frightening how quickly time slipped away from me. It was frightening how, most days, I could not even bring myself to care.
I was a healthy young woman, but I had never in my life done anything like work. I had never risen before dawn and toiled until after the sun set again, and then tried to sleep on a blanket spread on a hard tiled floor. I had never gone without rest when I longed for it, or forced my muscles to keep moving when they cramped and tore. The drudgery wore me down until I had no room in my head for anything but an inchoate longing for respite; when I did find the energy to think about something other than food or my aching back, I did not enjoy it.
Everyone was always exclaiming over how clumsy I was. Hardly a day went past without a new bandage appearing on some part of my body. The most common injury was a burn, because they were so easy to inflict, and no one ever looked askance at a burn on a kitchen worker’s arm, even if she had had no reason to be near the fire. My favorite was still cutting, though. Nothing eased the crushing pressure of sorrow and anger in my chest like the sharp, bright spill of blood. I made sure that the cuts were jagged and irregular and looked as accidental as possible. I avoided injuring my hands and lower arms when I could, because wounds there took so much longer to heal.
Sometimes I could not help myself, though.
It didn’t take Youta long to realize something was wrong. He had seen me as Suzume and knew that I could walk straight and move gracefully. Only a certain amount of my new clumsiness could be explained away as me playing the role of Rin. He sought me out constantly, trying in vain to pull me aside. I avoided him without guilt.
One day, nearly nine weeks after my brothers — now named Takeshi and Yoshiro — had been born, news came of a change. Chika-san, the woman who was technically in charge of all the kitchen staff, came waddling in, her square wooden sandals clack-clacking on the floor. She was fanning her red face rapidly with a paper fan. “Heathens! We’re to have heathens here!”
The cooks ignored her, and we drudges stared at her blankly. The head cook snorted and muttered. Aya sighed. “What heathens are these?”
“Black-skinned ones, with faces like demons. I’ve just seen them, Aya, I swear to the Moon, with these eyes!”
Aya shook her head, apparently unable to think of a reply.
Yuki snorted and whispered, “Early in the day to be that much the worse for the sake.”
“They’re foreigners!” Chika-san insisted.
There was an audible “Oh!” and suddenly everyone was crowding forward to listen.
“Foreign visitors?” Aya asked. “They really have black skin? Well, where are they from, and why are they here?”
Chika sniffed. “Some nasty foreign place. They are here because Terayama-sama invited them. Their country is knee-deep in gold, so Sumiko-sama the housekeeper said, and the Moon Prince is friendly with them.”
“Then it is a good thing they are here?” one of the cooks ventured, then quailed under the fierce glare that the head cook turned on him.
“Whether it is or it isn’t, I can’t see how talking about it makes this soup thicken,” the head cook said. “That goes for all of you men. Get back to work!”
Although no further word came to us about the visitors after that, I found my mind straying to them several times, wondering if they could be the same ones I had seen on the ship, wondering if that boy was with them. That shadow-weaving boy, with his tame bird of prey and kindness in his strange eyes. Thinking about this, I finally let Youta corner me as I hauled water up from the well.
Before he could speak, I asked him, “Youta, can all shadow weavers see through other shadow weavers’ illusions?”
He frowned, surprised enough by the question that he let himself be distracted from asking me about my new scars. “I am not sure. I have only met a handful of others. Each one was different in the way they used illusions and in what they chose to hide. I did find that the more I knew a person, the more easily I was able to pierce their weavings, but for all I know, I may have met a dozen other shadow weavers and simply not realized because their illusions were impenetrable to me.”
“So if I could not see through another person’s illusions, it is likely that they could not see through mine, either?” I said, relieved.
“Probably. Why do you ask, Little Rin?”
I shook my head. I had told him about what happened on the ship months ago, on one of my rare trips to the kitchen after we arrived, but clearly he had not connected the foreign boy who saved me with the foreigners who were here now. Not long ago, I would have been only too eager to pour my concerns into his ears, but now I found I did not want to say any more. Part of me was still deeply angry with Youta for his refusal to let me avenge my fallen house. He had blackmailed me, and my sense of trust in him was ruined.
Youta stared at me, waiting for me to talk. I quickly finished hauling up the water I had been sent for and escaped.
That night I lay awake next to Youta, looking into the orange-tinged darkness. My bones and muscles ached, and I was as tired as a winter cicada, but I could not sleep because Youta was staring at me. He had been staring at me since we both lay down that night, never taking his eyes away. I knew he was just waiting for everyone else to quiet down and begin snoring.
“What do you want?” I whispered eventually.
“I know what you are doing. You are hurting yourself again, aren’t you?”
I did not answer.
He sighed. “Some people might call you mad for cutting and burning yourself.”
“Some might. They might also call the daughter of the House of Hoshima insane for playing the part of a slow-witted scullion on the orders of an old man whose family name she does not even know. In both cases they would most likely be right.” I stopped with a gasp as Aya coughed and shifted in her blanket not far away.
I waited until the older woman had settled again and then turned over myself so I was facing away from Youta.
“My name is Takatsukasa Youta.”
I rolled over again to look at him, surprised out of my anger. “That is the name of a noble house.”
“I was the son of a noble house. Once.”
“Once?” I repeated. “Like me?”
“Very much like you.”
“What happened?”
Now it was his turn to roll away, though only onto his back. “I was a fourth son. In my family, such sons traditionally went to the Temple of the Moon to become scholars or priests. I was taken for a priest. For ten years, I lived in the main temple, here in Tsuki no Machi, and it was there that I learned to shadow-weave in secret.”
“You were a priest?”
“Yes. When the ten years were up I should have taken initiation to a higher rank. Instead, I was sent on a spiritual journey.” He laughed, a humorless little huff of breath. “Which means they turned me out to be a wandering priest, because I had not pleased the right people. I could have gone back to my family, who would have whispered in this ear and put
gold into that hand, and made sure I was accepted back again, but I was too proud. I did as I had been ordered, wandering from place to place, preaching for a bowl of rice, performing ceremonies for a place to sleep, writing letters for a ride to the next town. For ten more years, I never stayed in one place more than a month. Until I came to a little village not far from where you were born, and met a women there . . . and fell in love.”
I gaped at his profile. Priests took the Moon as their bride when they were initiated, swearing faithfulness to her for all their lives. To fall in love with a mortal woman was to break those vows — a crime punishable by death.
“I cast away my tattered priest’s robes and, sick of wandering, built us a little house in the woods. We had a daughter, and for a little while — such a little while it seems now — we were happy. Then word reached the main temple. I still do not know how. Perhaps someone to whom I had once preached recognized me at the market. Perhaps the temple kept a closer eye on wandering priests than I realized. All I know is that they found out, and they came to punish me.”
He drew in a sharp breath that caught in his throat. “I was not there. I had gone to sell our piglets in the little village. When I came back, the house was gone. Only ash remained. I found Ayako’s body in the woods. I looked for my daughter there, but I did not find her. I walked the forest for weeks, searching, returning to the burned remains of the house again and again, just in case she came back. She never did. I do not know what happened to her, or if she is dead or alive. She was so small, my tiny cherry blossom. She would have been eight that year. We called her Sakura.”
He turned over to face me, his voice rough and choked now.
“If I had ever met the men who took away my family, I would have killed them, even if I knew it would cost my life. If someone had stopped me, I would have tried to kill them, too. I understand what you want, what you feel. But you must understand that I cannot bear to have another person die and leave me as my Ayako did, disappear as little Sakura did. I have grown to care for you as if you were my own, and I cannot bear to feel that loss again.”
I laid my head down, so that my forehead nudged against his hand, and closed my eyes. “What am I to do, then? What am I to do, dear friend? I cannot stay like this forever.”
“Maybe you can. Maybe we will think of something. I do not know. Only please do not be angry with me anymore, Little Mistress.” He sounded pleading, and I could not bear it.
“I am not angry with you.” I reached up and laid my fingers on his, and felt them curl around mine.
Silence fell again. For the first time since I had become Rin, I did not sleep at all that night. I listened to Youta’s quiet, soft breath until morning came.
A day or so later Aya was wrapping a bandage around a burn on my elbow. The wound had refused to heal, and as a result, Aya had asked Chika-san for the key to the little medicine chest. She had applied a foul-smelling liquid to the wound that had made it sting fiercely. I winced as Aya gave the bandage an extra tug. She didn’t notice — which made me realize that something must be bothering her.
Yuki, passing us carrying a large iron pot, stopped to look. “It’s a wonder she doesn’t just fall into the fire and put an end to her suffering, as often as she gets burned,” she remarked. I didn’t react, knowing that this was as close to sympathy as I could expect from her.
Aya snorted. “At least Rin can’t help her silliness.”
“Are you going to start telling me off again?” Yuki put the pot down with a clang.
“And why shouldn’t I, my girl? Last night was the third time. If you must roll around in the hay with your stable lad, why can’t you do it at a safe time of the month?”
Yuki, who was already pale and wan, went even paler, her mouth drawing into a thin line. “I have to take my joy while I can. There’s little else to look forward to in this life.”
“Well, I don’t look forward to nursing you through another bout of sangre-root cramps, Yuki. Anyone would think you enjoyed being sick for hours! Either be careful from now on or you’ll have a bellyful of trouble, because I won’t give you sangre again.”
Seeing the look on Yuki’s face, I quickly made myself scarce. I’d just found a convenient hiding place by a pile of dirty utensils when Chika-san appeared in the kitchen, her paper fan flapping so hard that I almost expected to see her fat little feet leave the floor.
“Aya, you will never guess what is going on! Terayama-sama is setting up targets in the garden!”
“Targets?”
“For ky-ujutsu,” Chika-san said, naming the art of archery. “Apparently those heathens were boasting about their prowess with the bow, and Terayama-sama challenged them to a contest! They are doing it right now.”
Aya’s look of bored indifference disappeared. “You mean the lord is shooting in the garden?”
“Ho ho!” said the head cook — this news apparently interesting enough to suppress his normal contempt for Chika-san. “Terayama-sama is a master archer. He will put those foreigners in their place.”
Aya and the cook exchanged a look. He pulled off his white hat as Aya began to move toward the door.
“Hey, you,” he said to one of the undercooks as he followed Aya. “Don’t take your eyes off that nizakana, and make sure you turn the duck —”
“Sensei! Where are you going?” the undercook cried.
“None of your business. You are not a child. Just supervise in my place for a few minutes.”
“The same goes for you girls,” Aya tossed back from the doorway. “I expect all those steaming baskets to be repaired and stacked when I get back, Yuki.”
“Wait for me!” Chika-san said, pushing in front of the head cook.
The door closed behind them, leaving everyone else gaping. Then Yuki flung down the basket she was holding. “Pigs! Leaving me behind like that! And all this work to do, and me not well.” She picked up the basket and flung it down again, harder this time. In a moment, she would probably stamp on it, and then she would look for me to vent the rest of her temper upon.
I reached for an illusion of smoke and weathered, oily red bricks. As I gently eased the door open with one finger so that it might seem as if it was only swinging on a gentle breeze, I concentrated on the unfamiliar, clayish feel of the shadow-weaving. I had never used this one before, and it was hard because bricks need to be still to look right and I was moving.
“Rin! Rin! Did anyone see where the baka went?” Yuki shrieked, suddenly behind me. “I shall give her such a beating when I find her!”
I winced, but it was too late to change my mind now.
Without questioning my desire to witness the archery contest, I went quickly down the short corridor to the house and through the side door. There was a long line of closely trimmed, round juniper shrubs, and I bent, almost crawling, so that my head would be hidden behind them.
The garden opened up before me as the junipers curved around. Where the veranda at the back of the house led onto the garden, and before the formal arrangement of pools and bridges began, there was a clear area of mossy grass with a serpentine gravel path. It was here that stable boys were setting up the large round targets for ky-ujutsu. Small groups of house servants were clustered at either end of the veranda, making themselves unobtrusive behind posts or pressing back into the line of shrubs. Chika-san, Aya, and the cook were there, too. It was like a festival day.
I crawled back around the hedge until I came to the stand of trees that hid the kitchen. I ran along behind them and came out at the edge of one of the ornamental pools. There, a vast and ancient weeping willow bent down to the water. It was a safe distance from everyone else and the view was good. Better, the long trailing branches of the willow provided excellent cover, so I would not have to concentrate on holding an illusion over myself as well, as long as I kept behind the trunk.
I made a weaving anyway, carefully tweaking and pulling at my normal shadow-cloak until I felt it become green and fluttering like leaves,
with a long edge that was dark and rough like bark. I held it in the back of my mind, ready in case of emergency.
With a click, the sliding door on the veranda moved back.
Terayama-san stepped out.
My hands became fists. My lips peeled back over my teeth. More than anything — more than anything I had ever wanted in the world — I wanted to hurt him.
But I could not. I could not harm a single strand of his hair. I could not even draw his attention. I had promised Youta.
I leaned against the tree, panting and shaking.
After a moment, I peeked out again and found that Terayama-san was standing close to me now, at the opposite end of the path from the targets. I forced myself to examine him with some semblance of calm and noticed that he wore the traditional ky-ujutsu costume: a gray keiko-gi top with short sleeves that would not impede shooting and the hakama, loose trousers. I had never seen him wear anything so plain. It suited him. He looked strong, honest, and capable.
This was the Terayama-san that my mother loved.
More people began streaming through the door onto the veranda. High-ranking men dressed in the sort of rich clothes that Terayama-san normally wore. After them came the foreigners.
It was the men from the ship. Their behavior was so different from those around them that everyone was staring. They swung their arms as they walked, shrugged their shoulders, waggled their eyebrows when they talked. Smiles flashed across their faces like the moon striking through ragged clouds on a windy night. They seemed like giants, standing there next to Terayama-san’s friends and servants. The shortest of them was actually no taller than Terayama-san himself, but their broad shoulders and powerfully muscled limbs, accentuated by their simple attire, made them look twice as big.
The foreigners wore leather breeches and loose tunics that were bound at the waist with lengths of embroidered cloth. They also sported an astonishing amount of gold. Rings, bracelets, nose and ear piercings. Closer to them now than I had been on the ship, I was able to count eight earrings marching up the curve of one man’s ear. The bottom one was a dangling pear shape made of amber. Most had thin gold collars at their necks, the metal formed into fine strands and braided.