“Michiko.” Atsushi’s patience had grown thin since the death of their son. That terrible loss had been hard but he had moved on with life, as empty and troubled as it seemed at times. Michiko had not. He reached down, grasped his wife gently under her thin arms and pulled her to her feet.
Michiko’s graying hair was tied in a topknot for her morning ritual; the white face-paint she had applied to her once-beautiful features streaked with tears. She blinked rapidly as if waking from a deep sleep. She had lost weight from not eating much and, as such, was as light as a grass doll.
“Atsushi?” she said, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. Michiko shook her head, her gaunt features etched with anguish. “I could have saved him,” she said, her voice breaking. “Osamu would be here today if I had acted more swiftly.”
“And you would be dead too,” Atsushi interrupted softly, pulling her to him in a tight embrace. How many times must he reassure her before she would believe him? “The flood waters would have borne you away with him, never to return. Osamu is dead. You must stop this.”
As Michiko began to sob against his shoulder, as her frail body shook uncontrollably, Atsushi struggled against his own tears. Amaterasu! Always Amaterasu, the false goddess, and this terrible guilt Michiko felt! Michiko had lost a son, it was true, but he had lost Osamu too and it felt like he was now losing his wife. Slowly and as surely as the sun shone in the sky, Michiko was slipping away from him.
Such cruelty in the world, he thought angrily, not for the first time. Do the gods or the kami even care? As he led Michiko into the house, it was then he remembered...
✥
It is flying, father! Flying!”
Atsushi laughed in delight at the sight of his son. Osamu ran across the small field behind their house, towing a high-flying kite in his excited wake. The “paper hawk” was one Atsushi had purchased on his last trip to Odawara, spending a great deal of his hard-earned money to buy it.
Despite Michiko’s admonitions about such an exorbitant sum, it had been worth the price to see the joy on Osamu’s face. It was his son’s seventh birthday today, after all, and what better way to celebrate as well as honor the gods to ensure a good harvest for the coming year?
The kite was shaped like a bird of fire, as long and wide as Osamu was tall. It darted through the cloudless blue sky as if alive swooping and soaring, twisting and climbing. As the wind finally died and the kite fell spiraling to earth, Atsushi joined his son.
“Honorable Father,” Osamu said as he reeled in the kite’s string tether. “If it please you to listen, I have an idea.”
“Ah,” Atsushi said, feigning great seriousness. Osamu sometimes acted more like an adult than a child. “What would that be?”
Osamu stood over his kite, his small brows furrowed in thought, his brown eyes narrowed. His dark hair had been mussed by the wind. His short pants were grass-stained from where he had fallen running after his kite.
“I have heard stories of Chinese soldiers borne aloft by giant kites,” his son finally said. “Perhaps Hojo Ujitsuna could do the same with his samurai. They could surprise their enemies from above.”
War and battle again. His son rarely talked of anything else these days. Yet, since Soun Ujitsuna of the Hojo Clan ruled nearby Odawara and protected the surrounding countryside, it seemed a harmless enough preoccupation. Michiko was wrong to worry so about it. Like all things childish, Osamu would soon grow out of it. Atsushi himself once had such aspirations—to attain a respectable position in life, to become someone of modest wealth and benevolent power. But that was long ago, another lifetime. He knelt down beside Osamu. “Interesting. But they would have to be very big and strong kites.”
Osamu nodded. “But it could be done, yes?”
“Perhaps. But, as everything else in life, such an undertaking would have to be done in well-planned stages. The kites must be designed, then built and tested, then the soldiers trained in their use, and, finally, a great strategy devised for the attack. It would not be accomplished in one quick step.”
Osamu considered that for a moment and said, “Then I will think on that more carefully for I am sure it can be done. And then, with your permission, Honorable Father, I will notify Hojo Ujitsuna. And perhaps he will take it to the Shogun and to the Emperor of the Jade Court himself!”
Atsushi suppressed a smile. His son could be so serious and imaginative! Surely, those were traits he had inherited from Michiko. “Very well,” he said, employing his most important tone of voice. “I am certain you will come up with a solution. Now, come, your mother has prepared a delicious supper for us.”
✥
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.
