“Is that right?” I ask him. A few more steps toward him brings me so close that the smell of his perfection sweeps memories through me like a sweet spring wind.
“Yes. Makoto. You used to call me Mak.”
Unexpectedly to everyone and even me, I throw my arms around him. There is such relief. The comfortable essence when you know someone is far greater to you when it has suddenly been stripped away. He squeezes me and kisses my cheek. “What do you remember?”
I look around the room and things become clearer. A vision of two young children running through and passing us—a golden-haired girl and a dark-haired boy—laughing as he chases her. “We ran around here . . . just children. You wouldn’t stop chasing me.”
There is no denying the happiness on everyone’s faces, but the one lost expression is Arek’s. Our eyes meet. He breathes in, gives me a forced grin, then exits the room swiftly.
Mak speaks and brings my attention back to him. “You recognize this room?”
The tall windows let the low sun spray my face and the tap of the tiles make a hollow sound as I walk. To answer his question, I point to the half manicured, half jungle garden out back where a chubby, happy Buddha sits as a water feature, and I smile. “Not much has changed.”
“My father, king of ‘keep things the same.’” Mak stands by me, our shoulders touching, which is completely acceptable and possibly preferred.
On the side of Mak’s face is a small scar. I’m compelled to trace my fingers lightly along it. “The boys that summer.”
“No one was going to get away with treating you that way,” he says. I wrap my arm within his with ease.
The others around the room occupy themselves with other things as though careful not to impinge on our connection. My first and only friend stands beside me, yet why just him? Every one of them hopes to be someone I will remember.
“So where does Remy’s army stand with you?” he asks, clearly hearing my unvoiced thoughts.
“What do you mean?” Yet, I know what he means and he knows this so he eyes me suspiciously. “I understand that they’re here to help.” My whisper brings his head closer to mine. “But they want me to remember. I can feel it.” For the first time, as though his presence gives me freedom, the bottoms of my eyes become small pools of emotion. He notices that I am desperate to keep it hidden and he stands with his back to them to cover me. Our facade of watching the garden continues.
His hand slides around mine that holds his arm. “They know it will take time. I promise.” He wraps his fingers in mine with his palm resting on the top of my hand. For a moment he looks at me, unable to hide his smile, then he pulls my hand to his and kisses it. “I missed you.”
In a sudden vision as younger versions of us, Mak leans over to kiss me. My heart races suddenly. Am I supposed to be married to Arek? And just like that, my relief is gone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A small bit of light somehow comes through the deep red curtains to wake me early the first morning. From this quiet room in the right wing, there is a view of a pathway leading through the Japanese gardens set evenly dispersed between thick jungle. Engaging in a deep stretch as I pull on a clean shirt that Sassi has given me, several figures follow the path just beyond the home. Arek’s frame is unmistakable, Kenichi’s bald head is covered in a knit cap, and Briston walks easily between them.
A strange feeling of jealousy runs over me as though at one time my mornings had been filled with walks by their side, yet today they hurry off without me. I stack my hair on top of my head in a bun and quickly set off. When I was just a child, these cold floors felt exhilarating in the early morning hours and now I must put on socks. The shadows point the same direction down the hall, and I follow them. The smell of smoke wafts in and before even catching a glance out one of the hall windows, my memory reminds me of the servants cooking on the outdoor hibachi grill, already preparing for the day.
The misty air soaks my skin while walking along the brick path covered in cherry blossom trees that will bloom soon for spring.
From every angle the amazing view takes my breath away. Oversize sand boxes line the trail with intricate designs drawn in them. Flowers brush my arms as they drop from the perfectly manicured trees. Some things are familiar, especially the path I take to follow the men. With every step, I can see that this trail has been walked many times.
Small homes speckle the surrounding rainforest as I am able to guess that the color of the next roof will be green. Three large hedges stand in my way, but once I pass them, the green roof peeks above the tree line. One thing is sure, it feels like a dream, but most likely it has in some way been my reality.
Just beyond a juniper tree with snake-like branches, I reach an overhang. Thirty feet below is a clearing where yellow wildflowers monopolize the area. Briston, Arek, Kenichi, and Mak, stand side by side facing the mountains with knives in their hands. From the waist up they wear nothing while they stand in isometric lunge and their arms move slowly in perfect synchronization. They bring their knives up in front of their faces and then straighten out their arms, pointing the blade and stretching their muscles as far as they can. Their faces show complete concentration as they move together in powerful lines of old manners of Tai Chi. The ability to keep their muscles under constant tension is a true form of art that makes me hold my breath. After several minutes from somewhere under the overhang, four more men appear and come to stand as counterpart to each one.
They point weapons directly at each other, but no one moves a muscle for some time. I jump slightly when Kenichi yells in Japanese, “Tatakai!” Instantly, the men attack. Arek and Mak are quick and strong, their arms addressing each strike with ease. It only takes moments for them to find the upper hand on their attackers and when they win, they stop, touch hands with their partner, and begin again. And although it takes them longer, Briston and Kenichi are better than most men. Repeatedly they fight until covered in sweat.
Then, just as Arek throws his opponent to the ground again, he looks straight at me—almost as though he knows I’m here. His sweaty fist rises to the sky to call everyone to stop. There is no use hiding now, so I descend the old chiseled rock stairs that lead into the meadow.
“I’m sorry I’m bothering you,” I say as I walk close.
“No, it’s all right,” Briston answers with a smile, breathing heavy.
Every one of them wears the same gi pants. Just under their left hip on the black material is a gold lion on his hind legs and it mesmerizes me. Until suddenly time shifts, and a new vision rises within me.
In the field of yellow flowers, sweat rolls down my face as thick as after a swim, but my thighs burn in lunge stance. A knife with a green lion emblem is clasped tightly in my palm. I’m determined. My developed body, muscular and trained, patiently waits.
Kenichi walks in a circle, treading lightly but confidently through the high grass around me. Mak, in warrior pose, stands across from me, our eyes never leaving each other’s. Kenichi speaks in Japanese about how to be centered within our spirit.
“You mustn’t fight with anger. Passion is good because it keeps you moving, it keeps you strong. But every time you get angry, you lose power.” While Kenichi speaks, I keep my eyes on Mak who is staring me down like an enemy.
“Tatakai!” Kenichi yells.
Our arms and hands swiftly battle. In ten moves, Mak falls to the ground, my arm around his chest and my leg catching the back of his legs till he lands hard with a groan. In seconds he is back on his feet.
“Again,” Kenichi calls out.
In six moves this time, he falls again.
The vision ends at the sound of Arek’s voice, “Willow?”
“I’ve been here before,” I say. “The lion.” I point to Arek’s emblem.
“We were here often,” Mak says with a smile.
“Did I win our fights often?”
“Yes.” Mak gives a sheepish grin.
“I was obviously trained to fight.”
