Shadows on the Moon (29 page)

“I am not sure.” He tugged me down off the bottom step of the bridge. As we moved, the column of snow began to diminish, and by the time Otieno had shaken my
haori
out and put it back on my shoulders, and then brushed his own hair free of snow, the flakes had ceased to fall. There was still a rather large drift at the foot of the bridge, though.

Otieno took my hand again. His fingers trembled as they closed on mine. He started walking along the path, and I followed.

Hesitantly, I began: “I left Terayama-san’s house. I had nowhere to go. I wandered the city for a while, trying to find work, but everyone turned me away. . . .”

I told him the rest, though I excluded the hardest parts, such as what had really happened to my mother and my plans for the Shadow Ball.

When I finished, he was silent, then asked, “Your name now — Yue — where did that come from?”

“I wanted to leave Rin behind. Akira called me Yue, and it stuck.”

By now we had turned around and begun to walk back toward the bridge again.

“I have only heard half the story. Less than that,” he said. “I never asked before, but I always hoped you would eventually tell me. How did you come to be working in Terayama-san’s kitchens? Why did he tell everyone that his stepdaughter was sick? Did he even know you were there?”

“I do not want to talk about that.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Then I will ask again the next time I see you.”

“Next time?”

He smiled, and it felt like an ache deep inside me. “I told you that this time you would not get away so easily.”

“Sakura, sakura,

Covering the sky,

The fragrance is blown like mist and clouds,

Now, now, let us go now, to see them.

Sakura, sakura,

Covering the hills and valleys,

Drifting like mist and clouds,

Sakura, sakura,

In full bloom.”

The last note died away and I closed my eyes, the morning breeze ruffling the hair around my face. There was a footstep behind me on the veranda, and then Akira spoke.

“You have a guest.”

I looked up to see Otieno standing with Akira by the sliding doors. My suddenly stiff fingers fumbled the plectrum and forced a jangling discord from the
shamisen
.

“Good morning,” he said, smiling. “That was beautiful. I’ve never known anyone use their gift like that.”

I blinked at him. “What?”

“I will go and ask for tea,” Akira announced. She went back through the doors and slid them shut behind her.

Otieno padded across the veranda and sat down close to me — far closer than I was comfortable with. His hair was loose again, and it danced in the wind. The trailing end of his turquoise sash fluttered. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting you. You said you would talk to me again, so I thought I would call on you and make it easier. Is that not all right? Kano-san did not seem surprised to see me.”

“I bet she didn’t,” I muttered. Then I went on, “What did you mean about a ‘gift’? What gift?”

He raised his eyebrows. I laid my
shamisen
down, adjusted it a little to the left and rearranged my sleeve, and then looked out over the lake. I heard him sigh.

“I worry about you, Pipit. I sense that there is so much power in you. The fact that you use it without even realizing, and without ever having been taught, shows that. Powers that are denied and ignored can sometimes go wrong. I do not want you to hurt yourself.”

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. “My music has nothing to do with shadow-weaving.”

“I know that, but most Akachi have some specialized area that their gift naturally seems to enhance. Mine is archery. I am not an expert, but it seemed to me that you were weaving power through your voice and playing to bring the emotions of the song directly to the listener’s heart. It was a subtle and lovely enchantment. A wonderful way to use your gift.”

My voice was pathetically small as I said, “Thank you.”

It was hard to describe, even to myself, why I was so resistant to this extra ability that seemed to be trying to push its way out of me. Every time it emerged, I felt a strange fear, something telling me that you could not harness such a power without being changed, that embracing it would mean letting go of other things. Things like fury and sorrow, and the desire for justice. And without those things I doubted I would even exist.

“Tell me about your gift,” I said impulsively. “You said it enhances your archery. I have seen you shoot, and it all seemed completely natural to me.”

“Of course it is natural,” he said indignantly. “My gift is as much a part of me as your big brown eyes are a part of you. Now, do not frown at me, and do not try to distract me, either. You promised you would tell me a story.”

“What story is that?” I asked, amused at the childlike expression.

“The tale of how you went from a noble lady of the Terayama House to a drudge in its kitchens. I shall not tell you any more about my gift until you have told me that.”

My amusement vanished. “It is not a bedtime story,” I said, turning away from him.

His hand came to rest on my shoulder, drawing me back until I came to rest against him, my shoulders encircled by his arm. It was warm surrounded by the haven of his embrace, and I felt . . . safe.

“Tell me.”

“I cannot. Please accept that. I cannot bear to think about it.”

We sat in silence. Otieno’s fingers traced slow circles on my shoulder.

“You are a stubborn woman.” His lips touched my hair. “My stubborn woman.”

Held against him, I felt no urge to argue.

The sliding door went back with a sharp bang, and I jolted, pulling away from Otieno.
What on earth was I thinking?
Every time he laid a hand on me, my common sense seemed to fly away like a swallow in winter. The man was a snake in cat’s clothing.

“I am sorry I was so long,” Akira said breezily, sitting down beside us. “I had to deal with a message. One of the servants is bringing the tea now.”

As I sat in mortified silence, Otieno and Akira chatted happily. When the tea arrived, Otieno effortlessly ate his way through a plate of sweets and had two cups of tea. Apparently I was the only one who was disturbed.

“Gochisosama deshita,”
he said eventually, using the traditional words to thank a host for the meal and bowing elegantly from the waist. “Kano-san, I wonder if I could request the honor of Yue’s company for a little while? Her beautiful music has made me wish to walk under the cherry blossoms again before I leave your country. I think I would enjoy visiting the West Park, if she will come with me.”

“What a lovely idea!” Akira said before I could answer. “I am sure Yue will be delighted to go, but sadly I am quite busy. You will manage without me, will you not? Such old friends as you are.”

“Akira —”

Otieno cut me off. “You are very wise, Kano-san. Thank you.” His grave tone was completely ruined by the twinkle in his eye.

Outside there was a dashing carriage, drawn by a pair of bay horses whose color was an almost exact match for Otieno’s skin. I noticed this particularly because his tunic had a deep V-shaped neckline that gaped rather distractingly when he turned to open the carriage door for me. I tore my gaze away and, with some difficulty given my layers of clothing, climbed in.

I sat down — and gasped as a pair of pitiless black eyes met mine. Otieno’s hunting bird was perched inside the carriage on a specially adapted framework that had been bolted into the carriage wall. There was even a lacquered tray at the bottom to catch the bird’s waste. The polished mahogany perch was marked with glaring white gouges from the bird’s extremely long claws. Those claws flexed as Otieno settled down next to it, in the seat opposite mine.

“Do you not hood and jess it?” I asked nervously.

“Sometimes,” Otieno said, stroking the bird’s sleek head with one finger. It bridled and shuffled sideways to get closer to him, apparently enjoying the attention. “When we are going somewhere very busy, like a market, or if I will have to leave her alone for a long time. She will be fine flying free in the park today. You will enjoy that, Mirkasha, will you not?”

The bird let out a muted chirping noise, as if agreeing.

“Mirkasha. That is a beautiful name.”

Otieno grinned. “It amused me at the time — but I was only twelve when I got her.”

“Why? What does it mean?”

“Sparrow.”

“Really?” I asked sharply.

“Yes.” He gave me a quizzical look. “Why does that surprise you?”

I shook my head a little. “It is a coincidence, that is all. My old name — Suzume. It means ‘sparrow.’ My father always called me that. He said the noises I made when I was born reminded him of a little bird.”

I could see the struggle in Otieno’s face, curiosity warring with caution. I sighed with relief when he only said, “Well, perhaps she has some fellow feeling for you. It was she who called to me, that day on the ship, and attracted my attention to your plight.”

I looked at the bird and then, on impulse, bowed from the waist. “Thank you, Mirkasha.”

Otieno rapped sharply on the roof of the carriage at the same moment that the bird spread her wings and bobbed her head. For an instant, I thought she was returning my bow. Then, as we rocked gently into motion, I realized that she must simply have been adjusting her balance.

“You said you would tell me about your archery,” I said swiftly, hoping to keep the conversation off me for a change. Otieno gave me a sidelong look, not unlike Mirkasha’s, and smiled, as if to let me know that he was aware of my strategy. Unable to help myself, I returned the smile.

“My gift helps with my archery,” he said, “but in such a way that it is impossible to tell, most of the time, how much is natural talent for the bow and how much is magic. The two bleed into each other. The world is . . . malleable to Akachi, in a way that it is not to others. It is as if the raw energy inside us — our souls — has an affinity with the raw energy of the world itself. Such a closeness brings gifts of talent, healing, and foresight.”

“You make it sound wonderful,” I said a little wryly. “I bet all the children in your country want to be Akachi.”

Otieno’s face became serious. “No. No more than all the children dream of being warriors, or hunters, or any other dangerous and exciting thing.”

“Dangerous?”

“Yes. Of course. Nature is dangerous — think of hurricanes, floods, earthquakes. When we draw on that energy, we are capable of hurting ourselves, and others. It can be too much. My grandmother told me a story once, of a little boy who longed for a nearby lake to freeze over so that he and his friends could skate on it. Every night for a week, the little boy added this wish to his prayers before he went to bed. Then one day, the family woke and found that the lake had frozen solid — in the middle of summer. The little boy was dead in his bed, his skin blue and frost around his mouth and nose.”

“How awful. He died because of such a small thing? Is the story true?”

“I think so. Grandmother told me this when she was teaching me to control my gift. The boy died because his family did not realize he was an Akachi, and he had no idea that he really could change the world, just by willing it enough, or what the consequences could be. Mostly those of us with such a strong gift are caught early. The families notice strange things about such a child. That he or she can always find things that are lost, or that the dreams they speak of come true. Grandmother knew what I was because I loved birds, and there were always birds gathering around me, even around my crib when I was a baby. If I was put in a closed room, they would find ways in under the window screens or down the chimney. I would laugh and clap when I saw them. I called them to me, you see. If Grandmother had not been there, I might have died very young, without anyone ever realizing why. She said it was a sign of how powerful an Akachi I would one day be, that my gift manifested itself so early.”

I nodded, fascinated but at the same time aware that he had not really answered my question. Somehow the conversation was back on the topic I had forced him to abandon the day before: the perils of ignoring a gift.

“How did you find out you had a special gift for archery? From what I overheard at the archery contest, it does not seem as if your father values such skills. I would have thought he would keep you away from weapons training, especially once he realized you had a special gift.”

He frowned. “It is not that my father does not value such skills. It is merely that in our country we do not . . . glorify them. And you are right that I was kept away from the training grounds as a child. I discovered archery by accident.”

He turned his face away, and Mirkasha made her soft chirping noise. He reached up absently to stroke her head again. I wondered how many handlers of hunting birds could take that kind of liberty and avoid the kiss of the lethal hooked beak. But Otieno made everyone love him. Or everyone who had the wit to see him for what he really was.

“My mother died having me,” he began hesitantly. “In every way that counted, my grandmother took her place, but she was already old when my mother was born and . . . she died when I was ten. Because I was the youngest, because I had never known my mother, and because of the gift we shared, my grandmother was very special to me. We spent so much time together, singing, laughing, telling stories — when she was gone it was as if . . . as if the part of me that could laugh and sing, and tell stories, had died with her. Everyone had loved her, and everyone mourned her, but I was . . . lost. My father let me wander for a little while, grieving, and then he decided to distract me. He dragged me and my brothers out to the village training grounds where the hunters and warriors were drilling. He knew I had never been there before. It was a good distraction: a place that was free of sad memories. The warriors and hunters knew of our house’s loss — some of my aunts and uncles were in training there — and were kind to my brothers and me. We watched them dance with swords and throw spears, but my attention was caught by my uncle’s bow work. Something about the flight of the arrow . . .” He shrugged a little self-consciously.