✥

Such a precious memory, Atsushi thought as he walked the rice paddies that afternoon. But that is all Osamu is now: a shadow from the past.

At that moment, a group of samurai rode over the crest of the hill. It was not unusual to see the armed warriors. In these never-ending days of constant fighting among the feudal daimyo, such soldiers often passed on the road near his farm traveling to or from Odawara—they had done so periodically for the last two years. Aatsushi’s bakafu landowner had an agreement with the samurai and certain warlords, which thankfully kept the war at a distance.

As a result, Atsushi had become friendly with one or two of the samurai. As had his son, Osamu, before the flood. Osamu had been greatly interested in the samurai and all manners of weaponry, much to Michiko’s dismay.

But, as these four rode closer, two mounted on horseback in front and two in back of an attendant-borne palanquin, Atsushi realized he did not recognize them. Plus, they were fronted by a trio of brightly costumed musicians, beating drums and ringing bells.

Eerily, the sun clouded over as if setting a stage for some dramatic Noh play. Atsushi realized also the birds had stopped singing; the sounds of insects were no longer apparent. It was as if the creatures of the natural world had vanished.

Alarmed at such a foreboding coincidence, he quickly looked toward the flower gardens where Michiko knelt among the maiden lilies—she was intent on what she was doing and had not looked up. Thankfully, the gardens still held her interest after Osamu had died. Even her talent for creating origami birds and animals had faded since the flood. At least gardening kept her somewhat occupied. But before Atsushi could tell Michiko to go inside the house, one of the samurai hailed him.

As the warrior directed his mount closer, Atsushi wiped his hands on his trousers, removed his hat and bowed. “Good day, honored Lord,” he said. “How may a humble farmer assist you?”

The samurai stopped a few feet from Atsushi, looking down on him. The soldier was in full armor and struck an impressive and frightening pose. The stylized metal mask he wore, hiding the warrior’s features, chilled Atsushi to his core with its stark otherworldliness. A kitana and wakizashi hung in belted scabbards at his side, the long and short swords of the warrior class intimidating even when sheathed.

The samurai’s armor, unlike the other soldiers Atsushi had encountered, looked new and untouched by battle. And there were faint colors swirling in its surface as if the reflections of a rainbow flickered there. His answer to Atsushi’s question was surprising and unexpected. “My master wishes to speak to your wife.”

Atsushi blinked. “My wife?” He again looked toward Michiko who stood and stared at the palanquin. She held some weeds she had pulled in one hand; the simple shirt and trousers she wore were smeared with dirt. Her hair had loosened enough to allow some long, stray strands to hang limply.

The passenger in the conveyance had risen from his seat, also standing and returning his wife’s gaze. He was tall, thin and very pale, garbed in a long, belted, dark robe, his long white hair tied behind his back. His fingernails were painted black.

“Honored Lord,” Atsushi began but when he turned back to the samurai, the armored warrior had wheeled his horse around and was returning to his position behind the palanquin.

“Michiko...” But Atsushi found himself rooted to the spot, suddenly unable to move. His legs felt heavy, his feet like giant stones. His voice faltered as he watched Michiko walk toward the black-robed man.

There the two spoke in hushed tones, the man nodding and smiling, Michiko with head bowed and shoulders hunched. He held something out to Michiko who took it and clasped it to her breast. With a pale hand, the man drew some sign in the air between the two of them, bowed, and climbed back into his palanquin.

As if obeying some unspoken command, the four servants picked the palanquin up and, with the samurai and musicians, continued on down the road.

Atsushi could move again. “Michiko!” he cried, stumbling toward the road. “What did that man want? What is it he gave you?”

His wife looked at him then, her features aglow, a smile widening on her face. Atsushi stopped, startled. He hadn’t seen Michiko smile in a very long time. By that simple act, she had become beautiful once more. His heart leapt at the sight.

In her hands, she held a small scroll. “He is a majo, a servant of Amaterasu, and has instructed me how to save Osamu.” And with that announcement, Michiko strode back to the house, her head held high and the smile remaining.

No, no! Atsushi started running. He would catch up with this majo, this witch, and make him pay for deceiving his wife! How dare he take advantage and give her such false hope! Samurai or not, he would punish them for their disrespect.

But they were gone. Atsushi stopped, his mouth agape. The road ran straight and true for miles beyond his farmhouse toward Odawara. The group of samurai and the palanquin they escorted would not have gotten far; he should have seen them clearly. Yet, there was nothing; the road lay empty of life.

The sun came out from behind whatever cloud had hidden it. In the distance, a catbird trilled.

✥

Atsushi remembered the flood as if it were yesterday. He had been so determined to stay. He thought they would be safe. Why had he been so stupidly proud and stubborn? Look what it had cost him.

He sat at the wooden table in their house, a bowl of boiled cabbage and noodles sitting untouched in front of him, a bottle of shochu standing half empty. From his and Michiko’s sleeping room, he could hear his wife reciting verses. She had drawn the curtain and had been reading from the majo’s scroll into the early evening. He could make no sense of those parts he heard.

He sat slumped in his chair, staring into space, his head bobbing with the numbing effects of the shochu. He didn’t have the strength to confront his wife anymore, almost as if the majo had placed a spell over him as well. I have failed, he thought. I have failed to help my family. My son is dead and my wife is mad. What have I done to deserve this? What god or kami have I offended?

“It was my fault,” he mumbled drunkenly. “Not Michiko’s. Osamu-san, Michiko-san, forgive me, my son, my wife. Forgive me.” He put his head down on the table and began to weep. And, slowly, his eyes began to close as he drifted into a troubled sleep...

...and woke to the sound of singing.

What is this? Atsushi raised his head, trying to shake the sleep from his clouded mind. His mouth was dry, his head was pounding, his stomach roiled sourly from the shochu.

The voice intoned again, clearly, distinctly. He knew that sound though he hadn’t heard its loveliness in such a very long time. Michiko was outside, singing.

He stumbled into the cool air of early morning. He had slept all night! Squinting into the bright sunlight he saw his wife. Once again Michiko attended their household hokora shrine, giving clear, lilting intonation to a song Atsushi didn’t recognize. She stood with her arms crossed at her breast, dressed in the same clothes she had worn in the garden yesterday, her feet bare, her hair hanging loosely about her shoulders.

“Michiko!” he cried. “What are you doing?”Michiko began to glow. Atsushi stopped and looked away. A trick of the light! He was still half-asleep, still suffering from having drunk too much shochu. By all that was sacred, surely he was dreaming.

He looked back and fell to his knees, heart hammering in his chest. A shimmering blue radiance surrounded his wife, making her appear like some kami from the Invisible World. Her hair writhed serpent-like around and above her head as if alive. Her clothes clung to her as if blown by a great wind. Michiko held her hands out to him. “Atsushi-san,” she said, smiling. “Beloved husband. Do not fear for me. I am going back to save Osamu. And you must remember what has happened here. Look for my paper dragon! With the majo’s help I have placed it where you will only find it when the time is right. Do you hear? We will all be together again, I know it!”

Her paper dragon? What was she saying to him? “Michiko! Michiko!”

Like an earthbound star, the light erupted into an explosion of blue lambency. Michiko vanished within that azure cocoon, shafts of fiery radiance spreading outward like grasping tendrils. Atsushi cried out and covered his eyes.

✥

Atsushi rose slowly to his feet from where he knelt at Michiko’s grave. Once again he had placed some maiden lilies at the burial site. They had been her favorite flowers and fitting for one so brave and selfless and he had tried his best to keep them growing. It was one way of remembering her, of honoring her. Michiko had given her life to save Osamu from last year’s flood. Atsushi was nothing compared to her, she of the courageous heart. She had always hated war and killing and yet, in the end, displayed more courage and selflessness than an entire army of samurai.

Osamu. Blinking back tears, Atsushi made his way toward his house. He must see to his son.

Ever since Michiko had died in the fierce waters of the swollen Sakawa the year before, Osamu had never been the same. Only seven years old, he had been the light of Atsushi’s and Michiko’s lives. Full of energy and humor, mature and wise beyond his years, now the boy ate and spoke little and slept most days, crying for his mother.

As Atsushi stepped into his house, a momentary reverie came over him. He leaned against the entryway, feeling suddenly drowsy and weak. For a moment, a vision appeared to him—Michiko surrounded in blue light, a smile upon her face.

He shook his head, the sobbing of Osamu breaking the strange trance. What magic was this? Was he losing his mind? Did he even care anymore? With a shrug, he stepped into his son’s small sleeping room. There, Osamu lay, crying and mumbling in his sleep. Atsushi knelt down on the straw tatami mat and placed his hand on his son’s forehead.

Hot, so hot. Fevered, delirious. The flood still ravaged their lives so long after it had come and gone! What can I do? Atsushi thought, hanging his head. Pray? There is no one or nothing to pray to! The gods have deserted us if they ever existed at all.

It was then he saw the paper dragon. It lay on the floor near the foot of the mat. Atsushi stared. It looked like the cranes and other birds and animals Michiko used to make. He hadn’t seen this one before. How had it gotten here? Slowly he reached down and picked up the origami creature and through some urging not his own, as if another’s hand guided him, he carefully unfolded it.

There was writing within. Atsushi stared at the small chop mark printed on one side of the paper. It wasn’t familiar to him, but the script that flowed beneath it, so crisp and elegant, was Michiko’s.

With shaking hands, Atsushi started to read. “Dearest Atsushi-san,” the missive began. “I hope you and Osamu are well. If you are reading this, then that is because I no longer exist in the realm of the living. But I also do not abide in the afterlife but somewhere between, awaiting the next stage of our journey.”

He paused, holding his breath. Reluctantly, as if beckoned, he looked again at the letter. It was written in Michiko’s hand. Once more, he read.

“Have you remembered yet what happened? The majo explained it all to me. Those higher goals we seek must be reached in stages; nothing can happen overnight or with one simple act. Even the building of a house occurs in many steps. You, yourself, have always believed thusly. I have heard you recite this to Osamu many times and so do the gods themselves work their wonders—one step at a time.

“So I have gone to complete the second stage of this journey, Osamu’s death being the first, and you must now complete the third and final one. It is the only way that you and I and Osamu can be a family again. We could not do this together but only separately, as painful as that is. That is why neither the majo nor I told you before. It was not yet your turn.

“Heed what I say, my love. Osamu was not to be taken by the flood; he has to grow up to fulfill a great destiny and you and I must be there to aid him in achieving that. He will help to end this terrible conflict among the daimyos and restore peace to our land. You must remember, Atsushi. For all of our sakes, remember.”

Rage exploded within Atsushi. He ran outside, screaming at the sky above, giving voice to all the pain and frustration that had built up inside of him. “Michiko! Michiko!” he cried, shaking his fists at a passing cloud. “What does it mean? What are you trying to tell me?”