Shadows on the Moon (19 page)

I jumped sideways, and the blow that would have knocked the wits from my head connected solidly with my upper arm. Everything from the elbow down went numb. I yelped, dropping my bundle.

“How dare you?” he screamed. “I won’t have beggars knocking at my door like visitors!”

He landed another hit on my shoulder as I cowered, trying to retrieve my bundle. I dodged the kick he aimed at my side, and my fingers closed on the knotted rags. I snatched them up and stumbled away.

“Scum!” he shouted as I left the alley. I kept running until the sound of his voice faded behind me.

Eventually, unable to go on any longer, I collapsed on a section of stone paving outside a closed shop, trying to catch my breath. I was more thirsty than ever, and my shoulder and arm throbbed.

Across from where I sat, men and women were moving purposefully around an open area, raising wooden stalls, unrolling awnings, and setting out wares. I unwrapped my bundle. The gray rags parted to reveal the soft, fine fabric of the kimono I had worn the night I had run away. The cloth was crushed and crinkled, but still, no one would ever believe that a person like me could have come by such a thing honestly. Could I use shadow-weaving to fool someone into buying it from me?

Another of those harsh, braying laughs escaped me. Even at my very best, rested and calm, I could never have created an illusion good enough to hide the way I looked now. No, it would have to be something smaller.

I pulled out one of the combs and rewrapped the bundle. Looking at the delicate beauty of the tortoiseshell, coral, and amber, I felt a pang of regret that I must part with it. Then the stupidity of that washed over me and I was furious with myself.

Resolved, I got up, the comb clutched in my fist. Anyone might lose a piece of jewelry like this on the streets, and any beggar might come across it and keep it. A stall that sold jewelry, and which was perhaps not too respectable, might buy this from me.

The market was open now, and already filling with customers. I roamed it for a time, too frightened to stop and look or meet anyone’s eyes. It was sunny and noisy and full of laughing women, running children, and determined sellers, who sang out the names of their wares like a song. On a normal day, I might have enjoyed spending time here.

A normal day?
For whom? Suzume? Rin?

There was no such thing as a normal day for me, and there had not been for a very long time.

Brightly embroidered sashes caught my eye on a nearby stall. They were like the ones Otieno wore.

For a moment it was as if he were before me. I remembered the way he leaned or lounged on the edge of the well or against the wall whenever he came to talk to me. He should have looked undignified but did not. I remembered his deep, almost lazy way of speaking with that soft accent. His long hair and its clinking hair ornaments. Most of all I remembered the way he had made me feel. Alive. Real. Loved.

What do you think of little Pipit now, Otieno? Do you hate me and revile me as everyone else does? As much as I hate myself?

I walked off, eyes dry and smarting as if I had blinked sand into them, and wandered again through the market, head down, shoulders hunched, tracing patterns in the dirt under my feet. I bumped into people. They cursed and shoved me, but I did not look up to apologize.

The day grew hotter. My throat was so dry I could barely swallow. My suffering forced me to pay more attention to my surroundings. I came across a small, tumbledown stall at the back of the market. Its sagging awning was propped up against the side of a building. When the owner saw me coming he grimaced, revealing three teeth in varying shades of brown.

“No begging, no begging,” he said, raising his hands. “I have nothing to give you.”

I looked at the stall. Laid on a faded cloth were little clusters of semiprecious stones, small pieces of jewelry, and some fragments of larger pieces, cheap combs and more expensive ones that had damage, and badly carved
netsuke.

“Please, Oji-san,” I said, giving him the title of uncle out of courtesy. “Do you wish to buy today?”

“No, no, you have nothing that I wish to buy. Go away. You are frightening off my customers.”

There were no other customers. I kept my eyes lowered. “Oji-san, last night I found something outside a great man’s house. It is very pretty. I want to sell it.”

“Pretty?” A note of interest entered his voice.

I looked up and brought my hand forward to display the tortoiseshell comb, with its smooth cabochon jewels set in silver, resting in my dirty palm.

“Well, well,” he said, his eyes brightening. “That is pretty. But —” Suddenly he moved back, his face blank. “Not worth much, I am afraid, a little piece of nothing like that. Worth very little.”

He named a figure, and I ran into a problem I had not foreseen. I had never carried money or bought anything for myself. How was I supposed to understand what he was offering? I stared at him, trying to work out how to ask.

“What? Do you think someone else will offer you more? All right, all right!”

Another, slightly higher figure was named. Again I stared wordlessly. Again he protested and fidgeted and slightly raised his offer. Emboldened by this success, I began to close my fingers over the comb, shaking my head.

“You want to starve my children? You want my wife to go out in rags? Very well!” His voice rose almost to a squeak as he named another amount, a little more than twice the original.

I had no idea if it was fair, but by then my hunger and thirst were such that I could not care. I nodded.

As I walked away a moment later with a handful of coins, I heard the man chuckling to himself and knew that he had cheated me. I had sold half of everything I possessed and been cheated. He was a thief.

But you are a murderer.

I sat down right there on the dirt at the edge of the market, shuddering, gritting my teeth.
Sangre flowers dancing in the breeze
— I did not want to see —
Mother’s face dancing with light
— Stop it!

I brought my fist down into the dirt, hard, panting and choking on my breath. I was going insane. No, I was already insane. I had not realized it until now, that was all. I was a beggar, a madwoman, a murderer.

I was no longer hungry. People were carefully walking around me without looking. I snorted with miserable laughter and climbed back to my feet.

I used a little copper coin to buy tea and drank it under the seller’s watchful eye. When the cup had been refilled once — as much as a copper coin could buy — I returned it carefully. I was tempted to ask for another cup, but although I had five more coppers, the tea seller did not look as if he would be happy to accept another from me. It was late afternoon now, and the crowds in the market had thinned. I could feel the stallkeepers’ suspicious looks. Did they think I was here to steal from them? The bruises from the wooden spoon ached warningly.

I put the rest of the money into the bundle, shaking it well until I was sure that none of the coins would escape, and began walking again.

This was my new way of walking: head down, shoulders bent, clutching my bundle to my chest. Walking with no idea where I was or where I was going.

I had a handful of coins and one jeweled comb that I could sell. When coins and comb were gone, I would starve unless I could find work. The only work I knew was drudge work, but even that seemed to be above my reach now. People thought I was a beggar. That was almost funny; I wished I knew
how
to beg. It might be a way to stay alive.

Was it possible, if I tidied myself up a little, that I could approach people for work without being turned away? I could not afford to replace my tattered kimono or wash the dirt from it. I had heard that there were such things as public bathhouses, where men and women shared the same water, but I had no idea how to find such a place, or even if the owners would let me in, looking as I did.

I walked for a long time, thinking. The houses grew sparse around me, and the path under my feet grew stony, and grass and wildflowers sprouted along its sides. The air tasted of water. I saw the gleam of it between the houses, and then the houses were behind me and the river was in front. It was a wide tributary, wide enough that there was a bridge over it. It was a sturdy wooden structure, made in a gentle curve so that small carts and animals could be pulled or driven over it.

As I walked toward the bridge, not watching my steps, one of my sandals caught on something in the path. The cord that had been rubbing at my toes all day finally snapped. The
geta
went one way and I the other. I fell, grazing hands and knees on the rough ground. Something sharp jabbed into my left knee. I flinched and sat back, pulling my kimono up to see blood streaking down my leg.

There was no Mai here to fuss and flutter, and no Aya to bandage me up. I had thought before that my life was hard, but I had not realized until now that the greatest hardship, more painful to bear than any other, is to be alone.

I rubbed a little of the blood away from my knee with a fold of my kimono, but it just welled up again. The cut did not seem to be very deep, but if it was, what then? There was nothing to do but ignore it.

I got up, kicking the other
geta
away, and then, limping heavily, I made my way to the bridge.

The sun was setting now, and the water was gleaming bronze with crests of fire as it moved, deep and mysterious. Several fishermen were out on the water in little boats, hauling in their nets. A pair of cranes waded in the thick mud at the edge of the river, their bodies gleaming white and their black heads almost invisible.

Not really knowing why, I forced my tired legs to carry me up onto the bridge. The wooden slats had been worn smooth by hundreds of feet and were gentle to mine. An old man walked past me in the opposite direction, tugging a protesting goat behind him, and then I was on my own at the top, breathing hard.

I put my bundle between my chest and the handrail to cushion me and leaned over, eyes drawn down to that dark water rippling so gently below.

I imagined the water was still warm from the sun. I imagined what it would be like to fall from this bridge, down, down, with the wind fluttering through ragged hair and ragged clothes, and be swallowed up by the river.

It would hurt, no doubt. The pain would be terrible as the water forced its way into mouth and nose, and you would likely struggle, unable to help yourself. But a girl who had never learned to swim, who was tired and weak and dragged down by her clothes, would not be able to struggle for long. The water would close over her head and she would stop struggling and the pain would stop. A girl like that would go under very quickly.

The priests said that virgins who took their lives to avoid dishonor became stars in the Moon’s celestial train. Such maidens were supposed to die by other means, though. Their father’s sword, or sometimes poison.

My father’s sword was lost. And I had given my poison to another, and thrown away my honor thereby.

Yuki would say that I would become a river ghost, drifting sadly about the bridge to warn others away from my fate. I did not believe in ghosts. I thought,
hoped,
that I might disappear. That everything would go away, and I would just cease to exist. I let out a long, slow breath. How peaceful that sounded.

I watched the very last fisherman making his way back to the bank. Once he had finished, and gone . . .

The wood under my feet vibrated with heavy footsteps. I waited for them to pass, keeping my eyes on the fisherman dragging his boat up onto the muddy bank. A man laughed behind me.

The laughter caught my attention. It had the same unkind note as the laughter of Terayama-san and his friends. I turned my head and just as quickly turned it back, staring blankly down at the river. Behind me were two guardsmen in uniform kimonos with swords thrust into their obis. I froze and tried to make myself as small as possible. I felt rather than saw them come and stand one on either side of me, blocking off all escape but down, into the water.

My fingers tightened on the rail. Could I push myself up and over it in time? Would they follow me and try to pull me out?

“Good evening, Imouto-chan,” the one on my left said, using the familiar term for “little sister.” A darting glance showed me that he was young, twenty perhaps. His hair was falling out of its neat topknot at the front, as if he had been rubbing or scratching at it. It showed me something else, too. The man’s face was not tense or grim; he did not look as if he had unexpectedly come across a criminal wanted for the assassination of a powerful lord’s wife. He looked a little excited but relaxed, confident.

Relief made my voice tremble. “Good evening, guard-san.” They did not know who I was. They would not drag me back to Terayama-san and expose Youta as a liar.

The relief died as the man said, “What is a young girl like you doing out here all alone at this time of the day? Don’t you know that this is a bad area? Anything might happen to you.”

Oh no. No, no. It could not be. All day long I had been treated with revulsion, and now — now someone found me attractive? Was this man blind? Could he not see what I was?