Shadows on the Moon (18 page)

I felt almost as if I watched myself from the outside. As if it were not real. How else could it be so easy? I was not even nervous. I reached over and dropped the shredded root into the pot and turned away, triumphant.

Finally I had managed to strike back. Finally I had done something, instead of letting things be done to me.

The evening meal was prepared and carried away. We drudges sat down to our own meal.

“Are you all right, Rin?” Youta’s voice took a moment to reach me, and it was another moment before I could remember the correct response. I nodded.

Aya caught his attention, and he turned away reluctantly. But he kept watching me all through dinner. When we had eaten, I lay down, but I did not sleep. I was feverish with excitement. Soon. It would come soon.

Perhaps an hour later, we began to hear voices outside, a commotion in the house. The noise might not have reached us in the kitchen but for the doors and windows Yuki had propped open in an effort to create a cool draft.

Everyone began to stir and murmur. Straightaway Youta turned on his side to face me, and I realized he had not been sleeping, either.

“Did you do something?”

Defiantly, I answered, “Yes.”

The others were waking around us, getting up and sleepily lighting lamps, exclaiming over the racket up at the house, but the only thing I could hear clearly was Youta’s quick, harsh breath.

In a jerky movement, he heaved himself to his feet. Aya turned to him as if to ask him something, but he silenced her with a fierce shake of his head. I did not know what she saw in his face, but her eyes went to me for a second, wide and shocked, and then she stepped away, saying nothing.

Youta reached down for me and hauled me to my feet as if I weighed nothing. He pushed me into that little storeroom where Rin had been born and slammed the door shut behind us.

“Speak.”

I stared at him, refusing to be cowed. “She was happy. She did not care. She deserved to be punished, and I never promised anything about her. I didn’t.”

“Did you do something to your mother?”

“It’s nothing. It will just make her sick, like Yuki. She deserves it!”

“Tell me what you did!”

“Sangre root. I put sangre root in her food.”

He stepped forward and grabbed my shoulders, shaking me once. “How much? Where did you get it? Was it dry or fresh?”

“From the garden,” I said. His intensity was cutting through my sense of triumph, making doubts and worry creep in. “I sh-shredded a plant root.”

“How much of the root? How much did you put in?”

“The whole one. What does it matter?”

The fingers on my shoulders spasmed. “Little Mistress . . . do you have any idea what you have done?”

“No. No . . . I . . .” I shook my head, refusing to look at his white face. “It was only sangre. Yuki took it. It just made her ill.”

“Yuki took a spoonful of powdered root in water. Not a whole, fresh root. That is a lethal dose. A lethal dose. Little Mistress, you have killed her.”

I gaped at him in frozen silence.

“Terayama-san will murder us all. When he realizes that this is not some sudden illness, but poison, he will slaughter everyone who was in the kitchen today.” He shook me again, hard. “Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?”

“I will go to him,” I said, and as the words left me, I realized it was right. “I will go to him now and confess. I will tell him that no one here knew who I was. He will kill only me.”

“That will not work!” Youta said. “How could he believe that you hid here for so long without anyone’s help? He will —” He broke off, and his whole body seemed to ease. “I have it. There is a way.”

“What? What way? I will do anything, Youta.”

“Good. All you need to do is leave.”

He let go of me to rummage behind the stacks of firewood until he pulled out the grimy, long-concealed bundle of rags that contained my clothes and jewelry.

“Leave?” I repeated blankly. “How will that help?”

“Come on.” He took my hand and barged from the room. In the kitchen, Yuki and Aya were huddled together, whispering. They broke apart as we emerged but did not try to stop Youta as he pulled me out the kitchen door.

We hit the herb garden and broke into a run. It was almost completely black, the moon no more than a thin crescent above us, but we had both walked this path so often that we did not stumble.

“Please,” I panted. “Tell me how running away will help.”

“Because he will not realize who you are. You are just a child that showed up a little while ago, whom we took pity on. None of us knew where you came from; you were mute; you gave us no trouble. You disappeared tonight before we even realized you were gone. You could have come from any one of a hundred enemies of his, and he will have no reason to believe that any of us helped you.”

“Everyone in the kitchen knows that is not true! You told them I was your niece!”

“Once I tell them what you have done, they will have no choice but to go along with it. If you are some shadowy assassin who is unconnected with any of us, then we have a chance. Otherwise, we are all dead. But for this to work, you must be long gone by the time Terayama-san comes to the kitchen.”

I was panting, sobbing: tears splashing everywhere as I ran. I did not protest. How could I? It was too late now. Too late for anything. Too late to realize just what I had done. I had banished myself from this place of safety and hard work, where Youta had watched over me. I had banished myself from Otieno. There was no going back. I was alone from now on, and I deserved it.

I did not even deserve the luxury of tears, but I could not seem to stop them.

I was a murderer.

We reached the fence that hid the rubbish trench, and Youta bundled me through it. Our sandals squelched as we crossed the edge of the trench to the little gate on the other side, through which the rubbish collectors entered the garden at night. The scent of rotting garbage rose up around us in hot wafts.

“When you get outside, you must run as far and fast as you can. You must not be anywhere near this house when we tell Terayama-san our version of the story.”

“I’m sorry, Youta,” I said, scrubbing at my face with my forearm. “I am sorry.”

“It is too late for that,” he said, his voice remote. “I should have known that to keep you here was wrong. I should have taken you away. The blame is as much mine as yours.”

I was stunned into silence. Then I shook my head, frantically. “No! No — it — it is not. You only wanted to help me; you saved me —”

He cut me off. “Take your jewelry. Go far away and find another place to belong. Forget your father; forget the dead. Let your anger go before it destroys you.”

“Youta.” I sobbed out the word, clutching at his hand. “I — why . . . why are you still helping me? Why have you always helped me so much?”

He closed his eyes. “For thirty years, I have tortured myself. I have wondered, if I had been there that day, could I have saved them? When you ran into my kitchen through the
sakura,
I thought . . . this is a sign. This is my chance to atone. I did nothing for them. I will do something for this girl.”

To my astonishment, he suddenly put his arms around me, his wiry strength pressing me into his chest. His lips were dry, whispering against my forehead. “I kept you alive. I may not have done it the wisest or kindest way, but I did keep you alive. My Suzume.”

Then he let go of me and thrust the bundle into my hands. “Do not look back.”

Before I could speak again, he had disappeared into the darkness.

Cold.
I opened my eyes. Dawn was turning the sky iron gray, and dew was beading all over me like icy sweat, trickling down my face and neck as I sat up.

I looked around. I had not seen much of this little alley last night when I stumbled into it. There was not much to see now. A packed dirt floor, the lower walls of houses, thick stone without windows on either side of me. I was hungry, with a deep, gnawing ache in the pit of my stomach, and my throat scraped dryly as I swallowed. I ignored it.

I stared at the walls.

I noticed a loose thread dangling from the edge of my right sleeve. I wound the gray, frayed stuff around my index finger and pulled. The weave of the fabric bunched and caught. I could not pull it out. I twisted my head and bit at the thread until it came away. I pulled my sleeve straight and stared at the gray thread woven around my finger for a while.

Then I looked at the walls again.

A little while later, I had to stop staring and search for another loose thread that I could feel tickling my neck. Then I had to pick away a scab from the side of my right wrist, leaving a sore red mark behind.

A strand of damp hair fell across my eyes. I pulled it out. My eyes watered, and I gathered the water between my fingers and rubbed at it until it disappeared. I wound the hair around my finger with the thread.

I stared at the walls again.

There were noises starting to come from the houses on either side of me. Voices, screens sliding.
Servants,
I thought,
getting up, lighting fires, scrubbing floors.

I was a servant. I had been a servant. Before that, a lady.

Now I was a murderer.

I began to shudder. Feverishly I searched for something to distract myself —
the spicy smell of sangre flowers
— another loose thread? —
laughter drifting on the wind
— no, a scab, a scab here on my elbow —
the way the white roots shredded under my nails, damp and squirmy
— I pried at the scab, trying to focus on the itchy discomfort —
the soft, almost inaudible plop as the little bundle of roots slipped into the pot
— no, no, no, the scab —
you have killed her. . . .

I screamed, hitting my forehead again and again with the heels of my palms until my vision went gray and my ears growled and it hurt so much that I could not remember, that I had to stop.

I put my aching head down on my knees and wrapped my arms around myself so that I could keep pick, pick, picking at the scab on my elbow.

“Eugh! Disgusting!”

The exclamation jerked me out of my huddled position. I scrabbled to my knees as a young man, dressed in the plain kimono of a servant, gingerly approached me. He held a broom in both hands like a sword. I cringed, only just remembering to grab my little bundle before I ran.

“Don’t come back!” he shouted, sounding relieved.

The road on the other side of the alley was narrow. Small houses were jammed in together as if jostling for space, brightly painted wood rubbing shoulders with plain stone. Some were shops, the painted shutters still closed, colorful awnings still rolled up for the night.

Where was I?

I thought — maybe — I remembered crossing a bridge last night. More than one. There were many bridges in the city. I was far from home.

Home?

A harsh, hacking laugh escaped my throat, burning as it went. I clamped my lips shut. Hugging my little bundle to my chest, I wandered away from the road down another alley, and then another. One of the houses had a door here, and little windows high up, and there was a water barrel next to the door.

I cleared the floating scum from the surface of the water, cupped my hands, and drank. The water ran down my face and onto the front of my kimono. I dried my chin with my sleeve and then, taking a deep breath, knocked on the door.

A towering woman, her face and muscular arms lightly coated with flour, answered the door and stared down at me. Behind her, there was the familiar chaos of kitchen sounds and smells. I found myself leaning forward.

I cleared my throat. “Do you have work? For a drudge? I know the job and I work hard.”

She sighed and shook her head. “There’s no work here for the likes of you. Wait.” She reached back for something and then held a bowl out to me. There was rice and broth in it, and vegetables. I looked at it and then back up at her.

“Take it,
baka
!” she said, pushing it at me so that it slopped. “Don’t you want to eat?”

“Th-thank you.” I took the bowl, the heat of it scalding my hands. The food burned my lips and tongue as I tipped the bowl up to eat, and made a path of fire in my chest and belly.

The woman took the bowl back, careful not to let her floury hands touch my dirty ones. “Now get on. Mistress will have my skin if she finds out I’m feeding beggars.”

She closed the door in my face.

I stayed there, leaning against the door for several minutes, longing for her to come back out, yearning for that brief, warm brush of kindness. Then the door rattled as if to open, and I skittered away. She would not be kind if she saw me a second time. She did not want me dirtying her clean doorstep.

I walked on. Shops and houses were coming to life around me now, screens and shutters opening, voices and everyday sounds filling the air. The sun was not high enough to warm me. I shivered in my damp things. My sandals crunch-click-scraped on the ground, rubbing my feet. I was getting blisters.

As I leaned down to look at my sore foot, I noticed another kitchen door nearby. I knocked. The door flew open to reveal a man with a red and shiny face. He was clearly in a rage and seeing me made it worse. Before I had even opened my mouth the heavy wooden spoon in his hand lashed out.