Shadows on the Moon (5 page)

“Terayama-san,” I said suddenly, trying to drown the screaming out, “may I ask something?”

I looked up from my bandage to see my mother and Terayama-san both staring at me as if they had forgotten I was in the room.

They wish you weren’t in the room,
the real Suzume said. I pushed her voice away and continued: “I am sorry if I have disturbed your conversation. I was lost in my own thoughts.”

“You have not disturbed us,” Terayama-san told me. His voice was perfectly friendly, perfectly sincere. His eyes looked through me as if I were rice paper on a screen. “What did you want to ask, Suzu-chan?”

That is not my name! My name is Suzume, and no one, not even my father, ever shortened it.

“Before,” I began cautiously, forcing myself to sound calm, “I was very fond of music. I wondered if I might be allowed to take up the
shamisen
again.”

“No,” said my mother before Terayama-san could answer. The blunt interjection was so unexpected that we both looked at her with surprise.

“But, Mother, why?”

“You must learn to leave things from the past in the past,” she said, “and be happy in your new life instead. You have much to be grateful for. I do not want to hear you speak of it again.”

Terayama-san nodded at that, already looking away. “Your mother is right, Suzu-chan.”

They went back to their talk as if I had never spoken. A moment later, I stood and left the room.

My feet shush-shush-shushed on the tatami mats as I went down the corridor. I was walking too quickly. Almost running. Mother would have scolded me. But Mother was not here, was she? She was back there, with him, leaving her past behind. Leaving me behind. I would run if I wanted.

I put back the screen to my room, startling Mai, who was kneeling in the corner, folding clothes into a cedarwood chest.

“Nakamura-sama?”

“You may leave,” I said coldly. Never would I have spoken to a servant at home like that. Never — before they were all killed. “I do not feel well.”

She climbed to her feet, coming forward. “Oh, then I —”

“I do not want help. I want to be alone.”

“Yes, Nakamura-sama.”

I slammed the screen shut behind her and went to the square recess in the wall, the bottom part of which was taken up with a cabinet with a sliding door. There was a blue cloisonné vase on top of the cabinet that Mai had filled with delicate, scented golden orchids this morning. I wanted to pick up the vase and fling it across the room, but instead I opened the cabinet and drew out a long box of gleaming cherrywood. Terayama-san’s gift to me on the day he and Mother had announced their betrothal.

The box was filled with hair ornaments —
kanzashi
pins and combs: coral, mother-of-pearl, silver, ivory, and tortoiseshell. They were more beautiful than anything I had ever owned before. Every time I looked at them, I remembered my old favorite with its little white bone flowers, and sliding it into Aimi’s hair that morning, and the way Aimi’s hair had swirled in the grass where she had fallen.

My hands shook as I selected a long, sharp pin. How to clean it? I lifted it to my mouth and sucked it, grimacing at the metallic taste.

I held the pin between my teeth as I rolled up my sleeve and selected an area at the side of my elbow, then I touched the now warm pin to the skin and pushed it in.

I hissed, tears springing to my eyes as I dragged the sharp end across my arm. Tiny beads of bright red welled up against the white skin. Then the most glorious sense of relief filled me; I let out a long, ecstatic sigh. I had done it. It worked.

This must be why Moon Priests starve and beat themselves,
I thought. The pain did something to you: set you free. Gave you control. I had caused the pain. I had chosen the spot, and I had applied the pin. The pain was mine, and no one could take it from me. It made me feel . . . real.

I used one of the cloths set aside for my monthly bleed to wrap my arm. I would remove the cloth before Mai came to help me undress for my bath, and if she noticed the mark, I would say I had caught my arm on something. No one would guess. No one would know. I cleaned the pin, dried it on the edge of my kimono, and set it back in the box. My hands were steady now as I put everything away.

How much easier life was once you learned how to lie. I had gotten into trouble by speaking out of turn, arguing and answering back so many times. Not anymore. Now I would do what I wanted, and no one would stop me.

Mother looked beautiful in white. Of course, women always look beautiful on their wedding day. Someone told me that once.

“Terayama-san is a lucky dog.”

I didn’t blink as the man behind me spoke but kept my eyes on my neatly bended knees as the Moon Priests chanted in low voices and the thick blue incense billowed across the room. Most of Terayama-san’s friends seemed to believe that because I was still and quiet, I was also deaf. I was growing used to it, though. If I pretended I did not hear, I did not have to be embarrassed, and that spared me the need to blush. I had never known how to blush until recently. Yet another newly acquired skill.

A second man chuckled. “Lucky? My dear friend, she is thirty at least, and has not a copper piece of her own. Her family are not even well connected.
She
is the lucky one.”

“So old? With that face?”

“Oh, she may even be older. Have you seen her daughter? The girl must be fourteen or fifteen.”

“There’s a daughter? If she looks anything like Yukiko-san, I should have thought he would marry her instead. If he’s after an heir, that is.”

“Ah, well, there is a romantic story behind it all. Apparently Terayama-san wooed the lady long ago, but she chose another: picked the penniless poet over the wealthy eldest son. From what Terayama-san hints, she soon regretted it, but by then it was too late. So the wise Terayama-san bided his time, watched her from afar, and when the first husband finally had the grace to surrender his soul to the Moon, Terayama-san swooped in and got her straightaway.”

“Seems like rather a lot of effort on his part!” The man laughed. “Like a child returning to the festival year after year, trying to win the goldfish prize.”

“Precisely. One does wonder if he will be quite so pleased with his bargain once the shine wears off. I pity the woman then.”

They moved on to discuss other things while I sat as still as a statue, watching Terayama-san and Mother. They knelt formally side by side, facing the room; she in the stiff white robes and headdress of a bride, and he in black, with a white
tomoeri
collar that made the skin of his throat glow. They sipped from ceremonial cups of sake as the Moon Priest nodded benevolently at them.

The ceremony was almost over now. The triumph was there on Terayama-san’s face for all to see. Mother’s face was less easy to read. It was blank, white with nerves or excitement. There was a brilliance in her eyes, though. A glitter, like stars in the deep night sky. Every now and again, her fingers reached out across the little gap between them to gently touch his knee.

She turned her head suddenly to look at me and smiled, an awkward smile of stiff lips and rapidly blinking eyes. I smiled back. My smile was much more natural. It was the one I had stolen from Aimi. Mother nodded and turned her attention back to — I forced myself to think it — her husband. If she looked away from him for too long, he would notice. He always noticed when she was looking at something other than him.

It was so easy to fool her now. Once she had seen through my every excuse, detected my every disobedience. Once I had been unable to keep anything from her.

Once, she had known me.

I could hardly wait to be alone that night, hardly wait for the dinner to be over, so Mother and Terayama-san would climb into their flower-hung palanquin and be borne off on their tour of Terayama-san’s lands. When the chattering guests finally departed, Mai accompanied me to my room. It was not thought proper for a maiden to be unattended at night, but while Terayama-san and Mother were off on their wedding trip, I had the power to ban Mai from my room, and I did, sharply.

That night one cut was not enough. I broke open the scabs of other cuts, old wounds that I had made over the past three months, and made new ones, slashing again and again with the curved silver blade I had stolen from Mother’s manicure tools. I felt no relief. I heard nothing but the shrill cries inside me.

The blade slipped from my fingers and rolled across the tatami mat, leaving a wet trail behind it. I stared, panting. My throat was dry and sore, and my lungs were tight, as if I had been screaming, but the only screaming had been inside, I was sure of that.

Head swimming, I reached for the blade. There were soft plopping noises as I extended my hand. Fat, dark drops spattered the mats. I stared for a long moment before I realized I was looking at blood. My blood.

It had spilled over my pale pink kimono and snaked down my arms. My hands dripped. The gashes gaped open like red mouths. Too confused yet to panic, I tugged down my long sleeves with weak fingers and wrapped the thick layers of fabric around the wounds.

The pain was coming now. It grew with each movement, throbbing and burning. It cleared my head, and I looked in horror at the mess I had made. I had to clean this up. I had to get rid of the blood, or else everyone would know what I had done. I began to use the edges of the kimono to mop up the sticky trails, but more blood was already trickling down my arms. Wetness pooled at my elbows and dripped onto my legs. My sleeves were soaked. I had not known there was so much blood in me.

There isn’t that much blood in you. Not anymore.

I needed help.

Youta would help me. He would keep my secret. He was alone in the kitchen at night, he had said.

I staggered to my feet, the ground shifting uneasily under me. I could not even put out an arm to catch myself. Keeping upright with an effort, I nudged back the shoji screen with my foot and went unsteadily down the corridor.

The pain in my arms was worse with every moment. They felt molten, as if the flesh might simply drop off the bone. It was merest luck that got me down the stairs and outside without falling.

I pushed open the heavy kitchen door with my shoulder, gasping, “Youta?”

Inside it was empty, only the orange glow of the triple-hearthed stove visible. The walls seemed to loom miles above me. I could not hold myself up for much longer. Darkness threatened at the edges of my vision.

“Youta?”

I am going to die,
I thought, and closed my eyes on a surge of relief.
At last.

Then strong arms wrapped around me. They swung me up, making everything spin and whirl inside my head.

A harsh intake of breath and then a shocked whisper in my ear: “Little Mistress, what have you done?”

I could not answer. I did not know if I was moving or lying still, or even who was speaking to me. Then one of my arms was lifted up. I whimpered in protest. The sleeve was tugged, and then ripped swiftly away from the wounds. I screamed as fire roared up my arm.

The darkness won.

Something was wadded under me in uncomfortable lumps. I stirred, wriggling a little, but I did not have the strength to rearrange myself. I moved one of my arms and cried out when a white-hot pain spiked through it.

“Shh, Little Mistress.” A soothing, familiar voice.

“Y-Youta?”

“How do you feel now?”

“I am not sure. What happened?”

“You must tell me that,” he said, and he sounded sad.

With an immense effort, I forced my eyes open.

I was lying behind the stove on a tattered bundle of rags that I realized must be Youta’s bed. My arms were thickly bound in soft, grayish-white bandages. A lantern was lit now, and Youta was leaning over me, his back to the light. His face was too shadowed to make out. I was glad. I was remembering now why I was here, what I had done.

“I didn’t mean to . . .” My voice trailed off.

“To kill yourself?”

“No.” But I thought about that sense of relief I had felt the moment I believed I would die, and my denial had no conviction behind it. “I came to you. I came before it was too late.”

“Yes, I suppose that is something.” He reached across me and I heard clinking and things moving around. “I have made some tea — which you will oblige me by drinking.”

He handed me a bowl of fragrant green tea and helped me to sit up, offering his shoulder to lean on. He smelled of sweat and charcoal, and old man. His arm behind me was as solid as a tree branch.

“If you did not mean to end your life, please will you tell me why you cut open your own arms?”

I sipped the tea, though my arms burned and my fingers shook. It gave me an excuse for silence. I had come here for help, and Youta had helped me. Yet I found I still did not want to speak of it.

“It . . . was . . . an accident. . . .” The words came out slowly and heavily.

He refilled my tea bowl. “You trusted me to save your life. Trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

“I need it,” I whispered, tea slopping over the edges of the bowl.