Shadows on the Moon (8 page)

I wobbled a little as one of my sandals caught in a rough place on the gangplank, and grabbed at the servant to keep my balance. Suddenly that coppery foam below seemed far too close. I teetered for a moment, then drew in a breath of relief as I steadied.

Only then did I notice that the household man was not looking at me. In fact, although I was clutching his shoulder hard enough to bruise, he hadn’t lifted a hand to help me.

His attention was riveted above me — over the heads of my mother and Terayama-san, who had both frozen, too. As the shortest of the group, I had the worst view of the men they were all staring at.

I could see them only from the shoulders upward as they walked slowly past the boarding area, but that was interesting enough. Their skin was
dark.
Not dirty dark, or tanned dark, but the deep brown color of a piece of fine cherrywood. Their faces were shaped differently, too, with prominent cheek- and jawbones and full lips.

Their hair was long and black, like everyone’s I knew, but it was fluffy — no — fuzzy, like lambswool, and gathered into sort of ropes that fell down from knots or braids at the back of their heads. Golden ornaments, bells, charms, and beads clinked and tinkled in those ropes of hair as they moved.

But the most interesting thing about the men — to me, anyway — was their scars. Each man had a pattern of scars on his face. On the closest, I could just make out dots and whirls and long, straight lines that scored foreheads and cheeks and glowed dark blue against warm brown skin.

These must be Terayama-san’s rich foreigners; and they really were foreign, the strangest people I had ever seen. The men did not glance down at us. A sign of masterly self-control, since they must have felt our astonished stares.

Only one of them broke rank and turned his head. He was the youngest and the smallest. I could only just see him over Mother’s shoulder. The marks on his cheeks were like storm clouds.

His eyes flickered over us all with what seemed like impersonal interest, but when his gaze met mine, his expression changed. I could not have named any one emotion that crossed his strange, beautiful face. A sort of recognition, perhaps? I felt I ought to respond, but did not know how. Then a tiny smile twitched at one corner of his mouth, and I was unable to contain the answering smile that crossed my lips.

One of the other men looked back and said something in a language I did not understand. The boy, for he was no more than a boy, turned his head abruptly and hurried after the rest.

I drew in a deep, slow breath. That was . . . odd.

The moment the men were out of sight, Terayama-san began talking to Mother again, his voice lower now. He glanced back at me, eyes calculating, as if he, too, had noticed the strange look that passed between me and the foreign boy but did not know what to make of it.

The household man came back to himself with a start and, realizing that I was hanging on to him for dear life, looked mortified. He caught my arm and led me the rest of the way onto the ship with such tenderness and such deep protestations of regret for his inattention that I was worried he might cry. I turned my sweetest and most forgiving smile on him, while inside I wished him far, far away. I wanted to think about what I had seen. I wanted to remember those odd men, and the boy’s knowing smile.

They wear their scars on their faces. Right there on their faces. Where everyone can see . . .

Mother retched into the basin one last time and then fell back onto the futon. I brushed the sweaty hair from her forehead and wiped her face with a cool cloth. Her low moan might have been a thank-you. The ship rolled gently. I put my hand down on the floor to steady myself, and Mother groaned again.

“Shall I ask Terayama-san to fetch the ship’s doctor?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Don’t be silly,” she rasped. “This is the way when women are having children. Especially if they are on a boat. There is nothing to worry about.”

I was not so sure. Mother had been like this since the first night, but her illness grew steadily worse the longer we were on board ship. For the last week, I had barely been able to leave her side, and today she could not seem to keep even water down. The captain had told Terayama-san that at the very least we had four days left of our voyage.

“Then do you think you could get up for a little while? Walk on the deck, perhaps?”

“No, no.” She tossed her head restlessly. “That doesn’t work anymore. Watching the water go up and down just makes the little one angrier.”

One of her hands caressed her slightly swollen belly, gentle and soothing, even though her fingers shook from the latest bout of sickness. I propped the bowl of cool, lemon-scented water between my knees, to keep it from sliding as the ship rocked, and began wiping her face again, mimicking the slow movements of her hands on her stomach. The wooden walls and floors creaked and settled around us.

Then her face creased. I yanked the basin forward as she rolled over again and began to retch. There was nothing in her stomach now. She convulsed in horrible dry spasms for several minutes, silent tears running down her face, before lying back again and hiding her face in the sheet.

“I think I am done, for now,” she croaked.

I pushed the basin away, wrung out my cloth, and laid it carefully on the back of her neck, untangling the long strands of her hair.

“Would you like me to tell Terayama-san that he can come back in?”

“Not just yet.” She sounded a little sleepy now. I smiled with relief. I was not entirely immune to seasickness, and the heat and the smell of sweat and vomit in the little cabin were more than enough to make my own stomach heave when the ship rocked. I desperately wanted to get out and breathe some clean, cold air.

Everything would have been a lot easier if the female servants who were supposed to look after Mother were not both prostrate with seasickness, too. I did like being useful and feeling that I had a purpose and something to do. Still, there were times when, if I was to be fit to look after anyone, I needed to get away.

As quietly as possible, I shifted my kimono and began to stand. Before I could get any further, Mother stirred again.

“Where are you going?” she mumbled.

I kept a sigh inside with an effort. “I just want to clean things up a little bit.”

“Not yet,” she said as she pulled the cloth off her neck and rolled over. Her face, though sweaty and pale, still managed a smile. I fidgeted a little, eager to get away but anxious not to let her know it.

“Are you feeling better?” I asked hesitantly, thinking that if I had been sick as many times as she had in the past eight days, I would probably never smile again.

“Not really. It’s all right, though, Suzume. My mother told me once that the more illness the mother suffers, the better the baby will grow. She was terribly ill with me, and I was a big, healthy child. I barely knew that I was carrying you, and look how small and delicate you have always been.”

“It seems a heavy price to pay,” I said without thinking. “I’d rather have a small baby.”

Mother reached out to squeeze my wrist, and I wished I could call the words back. She was not angry, though. She made a little laughing noise and shook her head.

“You’ll change your mind soon. When you have a baby of your own, you will realize that a mother is willing to put up with anything for a healthy child. Anything at all. It is what we are made for, to carry children. A woman cannot really be happy doing anything else.”

I kept my face still with an effort. Was Mother’s glowing happiness at whipping Terayama-san’s household into shape and organizing this journey all part of her joy in having a baby, then? It had seemed to me that she reveled in it for its own sake. Couldn’t a woman be happy doing a great many things, just as a man could? I had been happy when I was with Aimi and my father. I had been happy playing the
shamisen
,
and singing. I had been happy when I was with Youta, shadow-weaving.

“Don’t worry,” Mother said, misinterpreting my expression. “We know you are not a little girl anymore, and in the city, there will be lots of young men who will be interested in you. Now that our situation is different, there will be nothing to stop you from making an advantageous marriage. In hardly any time at all, you will have babies of your own.”

I managed to pull my mask-smile into place before she saw my grimace. “Yes, Mother.”

I wished she had not said that.

I had always known what I would do with my life, of course. The same thing that my mother had done with hers, and her mother before her. What else could a woman do in this world?

Many things about my life had changed, but that had not. Had my father been alive, it would have been no different, except that the selection of possible husbands would have been rather more limited. The choice would never have been mine. That was a parent’s job: to pick an alliance that would be suitable for a girl and benefit her family. I was of age now, and the time was coming.

So why did Mother’s words make me feel like I was being pushed out into a dark, narrow tunnel, where there was no room to turn around or even stretch, and no light to see where I was going?

“You know I loved your father, don’t you?”

Her words jarred me from my reverie.
“Mother —?”
It was the first time she had even mentioned him since we had left the ruins of his house.

“You are old enough to hear of such things now, Suzume, and I might not have another chance before you leave us. Let me speak this once, and then we will not talk about it again. Agreed? You must not tell any of this to Shujin-sama.”

I shook my head fervently.

“Very well, then. You know that I came from a good family — though not a wealthy one — and I was beautiful, as beautiful as you are. I had many suitors. Terayama-san was one of them, and my aunt and uncle wished for me to marry him. But I only had eyes for Daisuke. He was not like the others. He did not try to impress me or brag to his friends about me. He wrote me poetry and talked to me. He seemed to truly see me, to love me. And I loved him in return. Eventually, after months of begging, I prevailed. We did marry, and we were so happy. At first. When I knew I was having you, I thought that I would die of happiness. But the labor was so difficult, and I bled so much, that afterward the midwife told your father . . . she told him that to have another child might kill me. It was wicked of her. It was not her business to interfere.”

She looked so fierce and unhappy that I made soothing noises and rubbed her forearm. After a moment, she relaxed and smiled.

“Your father listened to the midwife and told me that we would not have any more children. At first I agreed with him. I was frightened, too, you see. After a while, as I grew stronger and you grew older, I began to realize what a terrible thing we had agreed to. It was not natural, the way we lived. I longed for babies. I longed to feel close to your father, as I once had. We argued about it again and again, and he began to hide from me in his papers. Sometimes I felt that I did not know him at all anymore. He would not see how unhappy I was. All he would say was that you were enough for him. He couldn’t understand that you —” She cut herself off, paused, and then finished. “That one child was not really a proper family.”

I heard that unfinished sentence.
You were not enough for me.

“I gave up. I cannot explain how awful it was, my love, to give up. It felt as if something inside me had died. But I have another chance with Shujin-sama. He waited for me. He never married. He never looked at another woman. And when I needed him, he was there. He has forgiven me for choosing his friend over him all those years ago, and now I am able to have the children I always wanted. I am so happy, Suzume.”

I stared down at her, trying to sort through the tangled threads of my emotions. One thread stood out above all the others. “Mother, do you mean that you might die having this child? And Terayama-san doesn’t know?”

“No,” she said, shaking my hand off. “I will not die having this child. I was only sixteen when I gave birth to you. A child myself. I had not even finished growing. I am a woman now, and I am in no more danger than any other woman. There is nothing for Shujin-sama to know. You will not speak of this to him. Will you?”

“No, Mother.”

“I have only told you all this so that you will know I understand a young woman’s craving for a home and family of her own. I want you to know this happiness that I have, and I am sure Shujin-sama does, too. You are too old now to live under a stepfather’s roof, too old to need a mother anymore. We will make sure you are happily settled.”

“Thank you, Mother.” The words felt like the prickly leaves of the aloe in my mouth. She was so eager to be rid of me. So eager to forget her old life and make a new one that had no place in it for me. I was realistic enough to know that once I was married off, I would rarely, if ever, see Mother again. I dreaded this, but it seemed she looked forward to it.

How could I be too old to need a mother anymore? It rather seemed as if I was too old for my mother to need me. In all her talk of children, she spoke only of babies, as if they were all that mattered. And it made sense, for she had been different once, when I was very young. She was softer and happier, and as I had grown, so had her sharpness and anger and restlessness. And Aimi’s arrival had made Mother worse. But I had never realized until now that some part of her blamed me for her inability to have more children. Maybe even blamed me for Father’s distance.