Chapter 20
Spring, 1237 – The Unknown Lands
The two Vānara had left. Ou’bouji was once again on his way with promises to return in a month when Arahime was ready to travel. And Yu’genta was out foraging in the jungle. They left her alone to examine the rest of the gifts she had received.
She removed the tray in the box that had held the necklace and found below it many more pieces of jewelry. She picked up the first and largest piece, some sort of jeweled belt with dangling chains, meant to go around the waist. Its colors and style matched the necklace; it was clear all the pieces were part of a set. She wrinkled her nose. The Kakita of course knew she had an important duty of representing her clan, bearing herself with dignity as a representative of the Lady Doji. Many female courtiers wore some beautiful jewels. But these jewels were so lavish, so colorful and overdone. Even Harun would laugh at her if she wore such things. She took out a pair of large, dangling earrings such as the finest courtiers might wear. Fine battlegarb, Bushi, she smiled. A fine hoop of gold wire larger than a koku coin and attached to a chain followed. Three earrings? That’s different. A headpiece of jeweled gold disks. Rings and bracelets joined by chains, anklets and broaches. She pushed all the strange jewelry back into the box and shoved it aside. None of these were useful for travelling.
She pulled apart the bundle of white and gold cloth. Within there was a piece of clothing of some kind, similar to the gaijin tunics the heimen of the Ivindi wore, but made of gold cloth and very small. She pulled it over her head. It fit snugly about her, with sleeves that covered the upper part of her arms. It was not uncomfortable – indeed, it seemed to fit perfectly – but it showed every curve and barely reached the bottom of her ribs. It still felt good to have the wound on her back protected from view and further injury. A pair of finely embroidered cloth shoes fit her feet perfectly, though it felt strange to walk in them. There was a sheer white veil which she set aside. The only other thing within was a single very, very long piece of white silk edged with gold embroidery.
Taking the long piece of cloth, she tried to figure out a way to wrap it around herself to grant her at least some measure of modesty. She thought, perhaps, with time, a needle and thread she might be able to rend the delicate silk into some sort of wearable kimono, though her Crane blood was horrified she would consider destroying cloth of such beauty. Even if she had wanted to, however, she had no needle or thread. She needed to find some way to make this work intact. But her hands fumbled, and it slipped down after only a few steps. I can’t even walk in this!
‘Here, little sister. Let me help you. The voice was her own, the thoughts nearly indistinguishable from her own. But it felt as though another’s hands were guiding hers as they picked up the fallen fabric. Her hands, simply, with practiced skill, wrapped the cloth around her waist and pleated it smoothly in front of her, securing it with a small gemmed broach from the box of gems. More practiced pleats, and Arahime drew the cloth across her chest and over her shoulder, securing it with another broach. By the time she was done, all was secured and covered, and the duelist was able to move freely.
“What is this? How could this be?” Arahime said the words aloud to the empty room. “Who are you?”
A hesitation, and then the voice in her head answered, “My poor lost sister, to be raised in such foreign and violent lands. I made this sacrifice to help teach my younger sisters to learn all the things that you must know to create peace and prosperity for all people. I will teach you, little sister. Do not be afraid.”
I am afraid. Arahime thought about ripping off the necklace and sending it back to wherever it came from. But the specter of loneliness frightened her worse. She had not lied to the Vānara; the Crane valued peace and prosperity. All her life, all her mother’s life, they had lived in the shadows of war. The world had been shattered by it. Now, though, things were changing. It would be the duty of the Crane to rebuild the world again, and rebuild it in a different age, an age filled with gaijin and rinjin and Daidoji pepper and shattered Isawa and giant Kaiu machines. Her father had told her how difficult that would be. If she passed up this unique opportunity, it would be a loss.
If I could learn how to deal with the courts of Zogeku…maybe I can help Mushari even if I can’t fight properly. She brushed her fingers across the beads of jade and ivory, historically immune to the taint. It doesn’t feel evil. It doesn’t seem to be for evil purpose. Maybe I can use this to help my family. A twinge of pain in her chest, just the memory of the much greater pain she would feel if she pushed herself too far. Maybe I can still be useful to my clan, even if these wounds do not heal.
She did not take the necklace off. I never had a sister. I always wanted one. It would take time to get used to, but the Kakita was willing to learn.
Arahime picked up the jeweled belt. With no obi, she did not have much choice. She secured it around her waist, the jeweled chains flashing and sparkling at her hips. It was gaudy, but held firm and steady enough for her daisho. When she slid the blades into place, she almost felt whole again.
The cool nights and warm days of winter gave way to the heat of spring. Arahime poured her days wholly into regaining her strength and her training. She began to forage in the forest with Yu’genta, who showed her which foods were edible, which trees had healing properties. The old Vānara was crotchety and philosophical. He grumbled about everything, though never in Ou’bouji’s presence…the guru reminded him that one must receive one’s circumstances with acceptance. He told her of the great numbers of Vānara had been slaughtered by the Spider in the Empress’s name during the Age of Conquest, and how those who remained had hidden from the Rokugani, save for a few who had met with the Mantis before the Spider came. Those who had become cut off from their people fell to human ways, which from the way Yu’genta described them, were weak, violent, and decadent.
Arahime tried to explain to the old man that not all Rokugani were like the Spider. The warriors of Rokugan shielded the world against the forces of Jigoku. She spoke of the mysticism of the monks and the devotion of the shugenja and the discipline of the bushi.
Yu’genta, unimpressed, snorted and walked away.
Her dreams grew strange. Arahime rarely remembered her dreams, but those first few days after Ou’bouji had left were different.
She dreamed of her youngest brother, Hideyaki, dressed in red hakama and a white jubon, meditating in a large, cold chamber with heavy stone walls. She could see him perfectly in her mind’s eye: his curly brown hair and dark black eyes. Before him was a small red paper pinwheel. Her heart filled with fondness then pride, as the pinwheel started turning quickly in the windowless room. The boy allowed himself a small smile as he watched the pinwheel spin.
She dreamed of Masarugi, his wavey black hair cut short, as he practiced his kata side by side with another student. The student next to him was dressed identically to him, but Arahime knew immediately that the slightly chubby boy was Iweko Kiseki, oldest son of the Emperor. Both were doing well, but Masarugi had a grace, a gift, and the boken moved like it was made to be in his dark hands. Arahime always remembered Masarugi as a laughing child, full of fun and tricks, but this teenager was deadly serious. When Kiseki whispered some laughing comment, Masarugi shot him a glare. “Be serious!” That was not like what she remembered at all.
She dreamed of her father. He was arguing passionately with a Daidoji on a dock somewhere. By his mons, it was the Shireikan of the Iron Warriors, but surely Arahime was dreaming that, for she had never seen the man. Her father’s hair was much grayer than it had been at her Topaz Championship. Eventually, the Shireikan threw up his hands in defeat and gestured her father on his way. Her father bowed and continued up the gangplank onto the ship that was docked there.
She dreamed of her mother, but she could barely recognize her. She was dressed in a stiff, formal kimono in imperial jade and white, embellished with gold chrysanthemums. Her hair was dyed black, and was lacquered into an ornate style with jade hairpins. Her face had been painted white with lips of cherry red and gray eyes shadowed with blue. It was an expressionless mask offering nothing but beauty. Her mother stood at the top of three steps before a room full of elegantly dressed courtiers. At the top of the stairs, there was a heavy gold screen; Arahime could not see who was on the other side. Arahime knew it was her mother who stood there, could hear the warmth of her voice when she spoke. Even so, her mother seemed as distant as the moon.
And she dreamed of Harun. He stood balanced on a stump jutting out of the narrow beach near a heavily-damaged castle. He was gazing out to sea, eyes fixed on distant horizon. He was different too. His hair was long and curly. His scant beard had grown thicker. He had a pair of scars on his jawline that were visible because the beard had not yet hidden them. He wore a thick purple cloak, though his armor was sky blue. He balanced on one leg without the slightest waver, drawing and resheathing his katana in fluid motions.
She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. But he was alive.
When she told Yu’genta about the dreams, he shrugged. “Ou’bouji told you he would tell them you lived. He kindly shares them with you also. He may not have the skills En’you once had, but your samurai ways killed him. Ou’bouji is a wise teacher, and generally kind. You should be grateful.”
There were other dreams: of walking through the endless halls of a painted palace gilded with gold, of playing a strange stringed instrument, of dancing and making men smile until they agreed to do things they never would have otherwise. Those dreams weren’t like her at all. But she didn’t speak of those to Yu’genta.
A month had passed. Arahime and the old Vānara had prepared supplies for a journey, travelling further and further away from the hut to build the duelist’s endurance. The guru of the Vānara had arrived the night before, and they planned to depart at dawn before the heat grew intolerable. Yu’genta changed Arahime’s bandages one last time.
“Humm,” her caretaker made a thoughtful grunt.
She knew. “It’s not getting any better. My endurance is not returning. This wound is not healing, is it?”
Yu’genta shook his head. “No. It is not. I had to remove too much that had been poisoned. If I did not, it would have rotted and taken your life.”
She knew. “Will it ever?”
“Only Vishnu knows of forever. But not by any skill I know. It is healed that way now. It is part of you.”
The guru arrived, and, together, they headed into the jungle on ways known only to the Vānara. Arahime glanced over her shoulder as the little clearing in which she had lived for so long disappeared from view. I thought I knew who I was when I was brought to this jungle. But do I know who will emerge from it? Resolving to hide her weariness as best she could, she straightened and pushed forward on the path her caretakers had made. Someone who tried her best, she decided. That would have to be enough.
Spring, 1237 – The Unknown Lands
The two Vānara had left. Ou’bouji was once again on his way with promises to return in a month when Arahime was ready to travel. And Yu’genta was out foraging in the jungle. They left her alone to examine the rest of the gifts she had received.
She removed the tray in the box that had held the necklace and found below it many more pieces of jewelry. She picked up the first and largest piece, some sort of jeweled belt with dangling chains, meant to go around the waist. Its colors and style matched the necklace; it was clear all the pieces were part of a set. She wrinkled her nose. The Kakita of course knew she had an important duty of representing her clan, bearing herself with dignity as a representative of the Lady Doji. Many female courtiers wore some beautiful jewels. But these jewels were so lavish, so colorful and overdone. Even Harun would laugh at her if she wore such things. She took out a pair of large, dangling earrings such as the finest courtiers might wear. Fine battlegarb, Bushi, she smiled. A fine hoop of gold wire larger than a koku coin and attached to a chain followed. Three earrings? That’s different. A headpiece of jeweled gold disks. Rings and bracelets joined by chains, anklets and broaches. She pushed all the strange jewelry back into the box and shoved it aside. None of these were useful for travelling.
She pulled apart the bundle of white and gold cloth. Within there was a piece of clothing of some kind, similar to the gaijin tunics the heimen of the Ivindi wore, but made of gold cloth and very small. She pulled it over her head. It fit snugly about her, with sleeves that covered the upper part of her arms. It was not uncomfortable – indeed, it seemed to fit perfectly – but it showed every curve and barely reached the bottom of her ribs. It still felt good to have the wound on her back protected from view and further injury. A pair of finely embroidered cloth shoes fit her feet perfectly, though it felt strange to walk in them. There was a sheer white veil which she set aside. The only other thing within was a single very, very long piece of white silk edged with gold embroidery.
Taking the long piece of cloth, she tried to figure out a way to wrap it around herself to grant her at least some measure of modesty. She thought, perhaps, with time, a needle and thread she might be able to rend the delicate silk into some sort of wearable kimono, though her Crane blood was horrified she would consider destroying cloth of such beauty. Even if she had wanted to, however, she had no needle or thread. She needed to find some way to make this work intact. But her hands fumbled, and it slipped down after only a few steps. I can’t even walk in this!
‘Here, little sister. Let me help you. The voice was her own, the thoughts nearly indistinguishable from her own. But it felt as though another’s hands were guiding hers as they picked up the fallen fabric. Her hands, simply, with practiced skill, wrapped the cloth around her waist and pleated it smoothly in front of her, securing it with a small gemmed broach from the box of gems. More practiced pleats, and Arahime drew the cloth across her chest and over her shoulder, securing it with another broach. By the time she was done, all was secured and covered, and the duelist was able to move freely.
“What is this? How could this be?” Arahime said the words aloud to the empty room. “Who are you?”
A hesitation, and then the voice in her head answered, “My poor lost sister, to be raised in such foreign and violent lands. I made this sacrifice to help teach my younger sisters to learn all the things that you must know to create peace and prosperity for all people. I will teach you, little sister. Do not be afraid.”
I am afraid. Arahime thought about ripping off the necklace and sending it back to wherever it came from. But the specter of loneliness frightened her worse. She had not lied to the Vānara; the Crane valued peace and prosperity. All her life, all her mother’s life, they had lived in the shadows of war. The world had been shattered by it. Now, though, things were changing. It would be the duty of the Crane to rebuild the world again, and rebuild it in a different age, an age filled with gaijin and rinjin and Daidoji pepper and shattered Isawa and giant Kaiu machines. Her father had told her how difficult that would be. If she passed up this unique opportunity, it would be a loss.
If I could learn how to deal with the courts of Zogeku…maybe I can help Mushari even if I can’t fight properly. She brushed her fingers across the beads of jade and ivory, historically immune to the taint. It doesn’t feel evil. It doesn’t seem to be for evil purpose. Maybe I can use this to help my family. A twinge of pain in her chest, just the memory of the much greater pain she would feel if she pushed herself too far. Maybe I can still be useful to my clan, even if these wounds do not heal.
She did not take the necklace off. I never had a sister. I always wanted one. It would take time to get used to, but the Kakita was willing to learn.
Arahime picked up the jeweled belt. With no obi, she did not have much choice. She secured it around her waist, the jeweled chains flashing and sparkling at her hips. It was gaudy, but held firm and steady enough for her daisho. When she slid the blades into place, she almost felt whole again.
The cool nights and warm days of winter gave way to the heat of spring. Arahime poured her days wholly into regaining her strength and her training. She began to forage in the forest with Yu’genta, who showed her which foods were edible, which trees had healing properties. The old Vānara was crotchety and philosophical. He grumbled about everything, though never in Ou’bouji’s presence…the guru reminded him that one must receive one’s circumstances with acceptance. He told her of the great numbers of Vānara had been slaughtered by the Spider in the Empress’s name during the Age of Conquest, and how those who remained had hidden from the Rokugani, save for a few who had met with the Mantis before the Spider came. Those who had become cut off from their people fell to human ways, which from the way Yu’genta described them, were weak, violent, and decadent.
Arahime tried to explain to the old man that not all Rokugani were like the Spider. The warriors of Rokugan shielded the world against the forces of Jigoku. She spoke of the mysticism of the monks and the devotion of the shugenja and the discipline of the bushi.
Yu’genta, unimpressed, snorted and walked away.
Her dreams grew strange. Arahime rarely remembered her dreams, but those first few days after Ou’bouji had left were different.
She dreamed of her youngest brother, Hideyaki, dressed in red hakama and a white jubon, meditating in a large, cold chamber with heavy stone walls. She could see him perfectly in her mind’s eye: his curly brown hair and dark black eyes. Before him was a small red paper pinwheel. Her heart filled with fondness then pride, as the pinwheel started turning quickly in the windowless room. The boy allowed himself a small smile as he watched the pinwheel spin.
She dreamed of Masarugi, his wavey black hair cut short, as he practiced his kata side by side with another student. The student next to him was dressed identically to him, but Arahime knew immediately that the slightly chubby boy was Iweko Kiseki, oldest son of the Emperor. Both were doing well, but Masarugi had a grace, a gift, and the boken moved like it was made to be in his dark hands. Arahime always remembered Masarugi as a laughing child, full of fun and tricks, but this teenager was deadly serious. When Kiseki whispered some laughing comment, Masarugi shot him a glare. “Be serious!” That was not like what she remembered at all.
She dreamed of her father. He was arguing passionately with a Daidoji on a dock somewhere. By his mons, it was the Shireikan of the Iron Warriors, but surely Arahime was dreaming that, for she had never seen the man. Her father’s hair was much grayer than it had been at her Topaz Championship. Eventually, the Shireikan threw up his hands in defeat and gestured her father on his way. Her father bowed and continued up the gangplank onto the ship that was docked there.
She dreamed of her mother, but she could barely recognize her. She was dressed in a stiff, formal kimono in imperial jade and white, embellished with gold chrysanthemums. Her hair was dyed black, and was lacquered into an ornate style with jade hairpins. Her face had been painted white with lips of cherry red and gray eyes shadowed with blue. It was an expressionless mask offering nothing but beauty. Her mother stood at the top of three steps before a room full of elegantly dressed courtiers. At the top of the stairs, there was a heavy gold screen; Arahime could not see who was on the other side. Arahime knew it was her mother who stood there, could hear the warmth of her voice when she spoke. Even so, her mother seemed as distant as the moon.
And she dreamed of Harun. He stood balanced on a stump jutting out of the narrow beach near a heavily-damaged castle. He was gazing out to sea, eyes fixed on distant horizon. He was different too. His hair was long and curly. His scant beard had grown thicker. He had a pair of scars on his jawline that were visible because the beard had not yet hidden them. He wore a thick purple cloak, though his armor was sky blue. He balanced on one leg without the slightest waver, drawing and resheathing his katana in fluid motions.
She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. But he was alive.
When she told Yu’genta about the dreams, he shrugged. “Ou’bouji told you he would tell them you lived. He kindly shares them with you also. He may not have the skills En’you once had, but your samurai ways killed him. Ou’bouji is a wise teacher, and generally kind. You should be grateful.”
There were other dreams: of walking through the endless halls of a painted palace gilded with gold, of playing a strange stringed instrument, of dancing and making men smile until they agreed to do things they never would have otherwise. Those dreams weren’t like her at all. But she didn’t speak of those to Yu’genta.
A month had passed. Arahime and the old Vānara had prepared supplies for a journey, travelling further and further away from the hut to build the duelist’s endurance. The guru of the Vānara had arrived the night before, and they planned to depart at dawn before the heat grew intolerable. Yu’genta changed Arahime’s bandages one last time.
“Humm,” her caretaker made a thoughtful grunt.
She knew. “It’s not getting any better. My endurance is not returning. This wound is not healing, is it?”
Yu’genta shook his head. “No. It is not. I had to remove too much that had been poisoned. If I did not, it would have rotted and taken your life.”
She knew. “Will it ever?”
“Only Vishnu knows of forever. But not by any skill I know. It is healed that way now. It is part of you.”
The guru arrived, and, together, they headed into the jungle on ways known only to the Vānara. Arahime glanced over her shoulder as the little clearing in which she had lived for so long disappeared from view. I thought I knew who I was when I was brought to this jungle. But do I know who will emerge from it? Resolving to hide her weariness as best she could, she straightened and pushed forward on the path her caretakers had made. Someone who tried her best, she decided. That would have to be enough.