Shadows on the Moon

by Zoe Marriott

There were no other customers. I kept my eyes lowered. “Oji-san, last night I found something outside a great man’s house. It is very pretty. I want to sell it.”

  “Pretty?” A note of interest entered his voice.

  I looked up and brought my hand forward to display the tortoiseshell comb, with its smooth cabochon jewels set in silver, resting in my dirty palm.

  “Well, well,” he said, his eyes brightening. “That is pretty. But —” Suddenly he moved back, his face blank. “Not worth much, I am afraid, a little piece of nothing like that. Worth very little.”

  He named a figure, and I ran into a problem I had not foreseen. I had never carried money or bought anything for myself. How was I supposed to understand what he was offering? I stared at him, trying to work out how to ask.

  “What? Do you think someone else will offer you more? All right, all right!”

  Another, slightly higher figure was named. Again I stared wordlessly. Again he protested and fidgeted and slightly raised his offer. Emboldened by this success, I began to close my fingers over the comb, shaking my head.

  “You want to starve my children? You want my wife to go out in rags? Very well!” His voice rose almost to a squeak as he named another amount, a little more than twice the original.

  I had no idea if it was fair, but by then my hunger and thirst were such that I could not care. I nodded.

  As I walked away a moment later with a handful of coins, I heard the man chuckling to himself and knew that he had cheated me. I had sold half of everything I possessed and been cheated. He was a thief.

  But you are a murderer.

  I sat down right there on the dirt at the edge of the market, shuddering, gritting my teeth. Sangre flowers dancing in the breeze — I did not want to see — Mother’s face dancing with light — Stop it!

  I brought my fist down into the dirt, hard, panting and choking on my breath. I was going insane. No, I was already insane. I had not realized it until now, that was all. I was a beggar, a madwoman, a murderer.

  I was no longer hungry. People were carefully walking around me without looking. I snorted with miserable laughter and climbed back to my feet.

  I used a little copper coin to buy tea and drank it under the seller’s watchful eye. When the cup had been refilled once — as much as a copper coin could buy — I returned it carefully. I was tempted to ask for another cup, but although I had five more coppers, the tea seller did not look as if he would be happy to accept another from me. It was late afternoon now, and the crowds in the market had thinned. I could feel the stallkeepers’ suspicious looks. Did they think I was here to steal from them? The bruises from the wooden spoon ached warningly.

  I put the rest of the money into the bundle, shaking it well until I was sure that none of the coins would escape, and began walking again.

  This was my new way of walking: head down, shoulders bent, clutching my bundle to my chest. Walking with no idea where I was or where I was going.

  I had a handful of coins and one jeweled comb that I could sell. When coins and comb were gone, I would starve unless I could find work. The only work I knew was drudge work, but even that seemed to be above my reach now. People thought I was a beggar. That was almost funny; I wished I knew how to beg. It might be a way to stay alive.

  Was it possible, if I tidied myself up a little, that I could approach people for work without being turned away? I could not afford to replace my tattered kimono or wash the dirt from it. I had heard that there were such things as public bathhouses, where men and women shared the same water, but I had no idea how to find such a place, or even if the owners would let me in, looking as I did.

  I walked for a long time, thinking. The houses grew sparse around me, and the path under my feet grew stony, and grass and wildflowers sprouted along its sides. The air tasted of water. I saw the gleam of it between the houses, and then the houses were behind me and the river was in front. It was a wide tributary, wide enough that there was a bridge over it. It was a sturdy wooden structure, made in a gentle curve so that small carts and animals could be pulled or driven over it.

  As I walked toward the bridge, not watching my steps, one of my sandals caught on something in the path. The cord that had been rubbing at my toes all day finally snapped. The geta went one way and I the other. I fell, grazing hands and knees on the rough ground. Something sharp jabbed into my left knee. I flinched and sat back, pulling my kimono up to see blood streaking down my leg.

  There was no Mai here to fuss and flutter, and no Aya to bandage me up. I had thought before that my life was hard, but I had not realized until now that the greatest hardship, more painful to bear than any other, is to be alone.

  I rubbed a little of the blood away from my knee with a fold of my kimono, but it just welled up again. The cut did not seem to be very deep, but if it was, what then? There was nothing to do but ignore it.

  I got up, kicking the other geta away, and then, limping heavily, I made my way to the bridge.

  The sun was setting now, and the water was gleaming bronze with crests of fire as it moved, deep and mysterious. Several fishermen were out on the water in little boats, hauling in their nets. A pair of cranes waded in the thick mud at the edge of the river, their bodies gleaming white and their black heads almost invisible.

  Not really knowing why, I forced my tired legs to carry me up onto the bridge. The wooden slats had been worn smooth by hundreds of feet and were gentle to mine. An old man walked past me in the opposite direction, tugging a protesting goat behind him, and then I was on my own at the top, breathing hard.

  I put my bundle between my chest and the handrail to cushion me and leaned over, eyes drawn down to that dark water rippling so gently below.

  I imagined the water was still warm from the sun. I imagined what it would be like to fall from this bridge, down, down, with the wind fluttering through ragged hair and ragged clothes, and be swallowed up by the river.

  It would hurt, no doubt. The pain would be terrible as the water forced its way into mouth and nose, and you would likely struggle, unable to help yourself. But a girl who had never learned to swim, who was tired and weak and dragged down by her clothes, would not be able to struggle for long. The water would close over her head and she would stop struggling and the pain would stop. A girl like that would go under very quickly.

  The priests said that virgins who took their lives to avoid dishonor became stars in the Moon’s celestial train. Such maidens were supposed to die by other means, though. Their father’s sword, or sometimes poison.

  My father’s sword was lost. And I had given my poison to another, and thrown away my honor thereby.

  Yuki would say that I would become a river ghost, drifting sadly about the bridge to warn others away from my fate. I did not believe in ghosts. I thought, hoped, that I might disappear. That everything would go away, and I would just cease to exist. I let out a long, slow breath. How peaceful that sounded.

  I watched the very last fisherman making his way back to the bank. Once he had finished, and gone . . .

  The wood under my feet vibrated with heavy footsteps. I waited for them to pass, keeping my eyes on the fisherman dragging his boat up onto the muddy bank. A man laughed behind me.

  The laughter caught my attention. It had the same unkind note as the laughter of Terayama-san and his friends. I turned my head and just as quickly turned it back, staring blankly down at the river. Behind me were two guardsmen in uniform kimonos with swords thrust into their obis. I froze and tried to make myself as small as possible. I felt rather than saw them come and stand one on either side of me, blocking off all escape but down, into the water.

  My fingers tightened on the rail. Could I push myself up and over it in time? Would they follow me and try to pull me out?

  “Good evening, Imouto-chan,” the one on my left said, using the familiar term for “little sister.” A darting glance showed me that he was young, twenty perhaps. His hair was falling out of its neat topknot at the f
ront, as if he had been rubbing or scratching at it. It showed me something else, too. The man’s face was not tense or grim; he did not look as if he had unexpectedly come across a criminal wanted for the assassination of a powerful lord’s wife. He looked a little excited but relaxed, confident.

  Relief made my voice tremble. “Good evening, guard-san.” They did not know who I was. They would not drag me back to Terayama-san and expose Youta as a liar.

  The relief died as the man said, “What is a young girl like you doing out here all alone at this time of the day? Don’t you know that this is a bad area? Anything might happen to you.”

  Oh no. No, no. It could not be. All day long I had been treated with revulsion, and now — now someone found me attractive? Was this man blind? Could he not see what I was?

  “I live in this part of town,” I said evenly. “I only stopped for a moment. My father is expecting me home.”

  “Really? Well, perhaps we should escort you back to him.”

  The other guard sighed impatiently.

  The first guard let out another of those low, gloating laughs. “My friend is not as softhearted as I. He would let you walk home in the dark all on your own. You don’t want that, do you?”

  I clutched at the wooden rail. Another few moments — just another minute — and I would have been beyond your reach. I would have been beyond this fear. Go away and leave me alone.

  “She isn’t interested,” the second guard said, stepping away. “She smells awful anyway. Let’s go.”

  “Not so fast —” The first guard moved suddenly, sliding one of his arms around my waist and up to the front of my kimono. In rage and disbelief, I felt his fingers grope at my chest.

  Instinctively I fought, digging my nails into his arm and jabbing one of my elbows back. The bony point sank deep into his stomach. I felt him grunt against my ear. He shoved me away with both hands, and I went flying, crying out as I landed hard. Sobbing with pain and relief, I got my hands under myself and began to push up. Run, run, get away. . . .

  A foot slammed between my shoulder blades. I went down onto my face, still scrabbling to get away. The foot pressed down against my back, a steady pressure that kept me flat, crushing my lungs. I coughed, struggling for breath.

  “That little —” I heard the first guard say.

  “Stop acting like a fool for once and look at that bundle she just dropped,” said the other. It was his foot holding me down.

  “What about . . . ? Well, well,” said the first guard. “Jewelry, money, and a lady’s fine kimono. We’ve caught a thief.”

  Footsteps pounded up to me, and a kick to my side made my ribs explode with agony. I gasped, unable even to scream. I wanted to curl into a ball, but I was already being hauled up. My arms were bent behind me and bound with something thin and strong that bit into the skin of my wrists.

  “Not so icy now, are we?” said the first guard, leaning toward me, his hot breath puffing over my face. My stomach was cramping. If there had been food inside me, I would have been sick.

  “I bet you wish you’d been a bit more friendly, eh? Too late now. You’re going in a holding cell with all the other scum, and in the morning . . .” He made a crunching noise behind his teeth and then poked his tongue out as if he was dead.

  I spat in his face.

  He stumbled back. The guard holding my arms jerked me to the side and punched me, his fist smashing into my temple.

  The blow knocked me silly. Everything swam dim and gray, as if I had jumped from the bridge after all and was slowly sinking through the water. Distantly I heard cursing and was aware that I was being lifted and heaved over someone’s shoulder. The shoulder drove into my abdomen, and I retched. I was not aware of anything more for a while.

  I woke up when we stopped moving. There were voices, and then I was dropped. I slid to the ground with a bruising thump to my shoulder and hip. My head bounced off the floor. I was rolled roughly onto my stomach by someone’s foot.

  “That way if she pukes she won’t choke on it.”

  Something heavy slammed down inches from my head, making me wince. A gate. A rattle: keys?

  Then silence. Darkness. I was alone.

  Why? I had been so close to escaping this, so close to escaping everything. Why must I be brought lower than I already had been? Why had the fisherman lingered? Why hadn’t I jumped when I’d had the chance?

  I would die tomorrow anyway, from what the guards had said. On the face of it, it made little difference. Yet once again the choice had been snatched away from me, just as with everything else in my life. Even my death was not to be my own.

  Every bruise, cut, and scrape began to throb in time with my heartbeat. I could not even hear myself moan over that thump, thump, thump of pain. My ribs seemed to grind against one another with every breath. It was almost as bad as the memory of that man’s hands all over my chest. I could still feel them, clutching and rubbing. I retched again, gasping as my ribs protested.

  Carefully I rocked and shifted until my bottom was on the floor and I could stretch my legs out. My head and ribs both sent out warning jolts of pain, and I had to hold still and breathe slowly and shallowly for a few minutes.

  It was only then that I noticed I was not alone.

  The room was small and square, about as wide across as twice my height. I thought that I would be able to stand upright in it, but most people would not. Three of the walls were packed dirt, and so was the floor. The fourth was made of thick, strong bamboo staffs, bound in a crisscross pattern. There were no windows. Some light — orange and flickering, as if from tapers — filtered through the gaps between the bamboo bars, confirming what my nose told me, that the room was surprisingly clean and well swept. There was no furniture, not even a blanket to lie on.

  In the farthest corner of the room, a man — a very large man — was slumped against the wall, unconscious. He had at least three chins, and his mouth gaped in a silent snore. I could not smell alcohol, but something about the boneless way he drooped told me he was drunk. Was that good or bad? I watched him warily, but he did not move at all.

  Still, I shuffled back, ignoring the stabbing pains from various bits of me, until my shoulder blades were pressed against the opposite wall.

  I began trying to free myself from the bindings on my wrists. Moving cautiously, I squirmed and wriggled, leaning forward and then back against the wall, forward and then back, until gradually I was able to work my hands under my backside. I knew I was scraping and bruising my fingers terribly, but they were numb enough that it did not stop me. I leaned back again, using the wall for support, and lifted up as much as I could. Cold sweat was streaming down my face and back, and my legs were trembling. I yanked desperately, and my hands came up and hit the backs of my knees. I collapsed down again, still shaking, and slowly worked my hands out from under my legs.

  My shoulders twinged, grateful to be in a more natural position. I rolled and shrugged them as best I could with my hands still tied together, but my ribs soon demanded that I stop.

  When I brought the bindings to my mouth, I could feel that they were leather, thin and flexible. I lost track of time as I gnawed at them, working at the same tiny piece until I felt it begin to fray and finally to part. I pulled my hands from side to side and tugged at the other ties with my teeth until they loosened, just a little, just enough to drag my hands free.

  I flung the hated ties at the bamboo door and began rubbing the feeling back into my hands, gritting my teeth against the tingling agony of the blood returning to the cold flesh.

  I was free from my bindings. There was no way to be free of this cell, or my fate.

  I had only this last night to live.

  For the first time I began to wonder why the Moon had been so swift in her punishment. It was not that I did not deserve it. I knew I did. But others had committed crimes as terrible as mine and had suffered no immediate downfall. Terayama-san had murdered his best friend and a defenseless girl and had gone on just a
s before.

  The one punishment that Terayama-san had suffered had been the one I had inflicted. I had — I forced myself to think it — stolen his wife from him. He loved her in his way. He would mourn her. Yet he would still be Terayama-san, golden and proud, feared and admired. He had not lost all he held dear, been exiled from home, been brought lower than dirt.

  My mother had died, but Terayama-san lived. He had not been punished nearly enough.

  On these bitter thoughts, I drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  A noise woke me. A low groan. It took me a moment to realize that the noise had not come from me.

  I tensed as I looked up, expecting to see a fat drunken man.

  There was no fat man in the cell with me. There was a woman, lying on her side near the back wall. I stared at her in astonishment. It was not just the fact that she had somehow entered the cell and changed places with the fat man without ever disturbing me.

  Everything about her was wrong. Such a woman should never have been in a prison cell.

  She wore a kurotomesode, the most formal style of kimono for married women. It was black with a stunning design of butterflies and dragonflies in red, gold, and amber. Even in the gloom its colors seemed to glow. Her hair was long, as long as mine had been once, and just as glossy, even in disarray and cascading from a series of golden pins and combs.

  Then she moaned again — no, whimpered — a sound of profound suffering, and all other thoughts left my head. She was clearly in pain. I was the only one there to help. Cautiously I shuffled closer to her.

  “Onee-sama,” I whispered, using the most respectful term for “older sister.” “Onee-sama, what is wrong?”

  The woman murmured and stirred; her sleeve fell away from her face. It was too dark for me to make her out perfectly, but the shadows could not hide such beauty.

  Enormous, catlike eyes blinked dazedly out of a heart-shaped face. Those eyes — both the shape and the color, an unusual pale amber — were so astonishingly lovely that for a moment I did not even notice the perfection of her cheekbones or the delicacy of her mouth. All I knew was that even to me, who had grown up with Hoshima Yukiko and Hoshima Aimi, two acknowledged beauties, this woman was overwhelming.