A text from Tomohiro. Of course.
How is Miyajima? Training started today. Katakou’s sensei is tough. Sato thinks you and I are spending too much time together. He’s joking that you’re seeing Takahashi on the side. —Tomo
I read the message again, scouring it for the messages hidden underneath. If Ishikawa thought we were spending too much time together, it must mean he was pestering Tomohiro about the Kami thing. My cheeks flushed when I read about Jun. Was he actually worried about it? I didn’t want to explain myself and come off looking dumb. Or worse, defensive.
I thought carefully, then typed a response.
Miyajima is beautiful, more fun than a sweaty old kendo summer. I only saw Takahashi at Sunpu when Ishikawa was being a—I deleted what I’d originally put, and tried again—
jerk.
I stared at it for a while, then clicked Send. I couldn’t risk any hidden messages of my own, anything that might give him away. I hoped my concern went with the message, because I was out of my mind over here on this tranquil island, unable to do anything to help.
In the morning, we took the ropeway up the mountain and searched for monkeys with Niichan’s binoculars. When the afternoon got too hot, we had plenty of summer homework to keep us occupied in the little house while we blasted the air-con.
Niichan and I went for a walk while Yuki perfected her chicken curry for dinner. We talked about the weather, the sights in Miyajima, about New York and Canada, and my life straddled between the two. When we reached Itsukushima Shrine, we wandered straight in, walking along the boardwalk planks above the water, through the long tunnels of orange and white that snaked along the building.
“Niichan,” I said, looking down at the big koi circling the stilts of the shrine.
“Hmm?”
“Could you tell me about the kami? ”
“There are so many.” He laughed. “Here at Itsukushima the principal kami are the three daughters of Susanou.”
“Susanou,” I said. The name sounded familiar.
Niichan nodded. “The god of storms,” he said. “Amaterasu’s brother.”
My blood froze, but I forced my feet on so Niichan wouldn’t notice. Amaterasu was the source of power, Tomohiro had said. All the Kami’s abilities came from her.
“Do you—do you think,” I stuttered, hoping I wouldn’t sound ridiculous. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Do you think the kami were real?”
Niichan’s footsteps stopped. I opened my eyes and saw his face creased in all sorts of worry lines. I’d gone too far now, I thought, but then he smiled. “All I know is that there is a lot of power in the shrines,” he said. “If you pray, you get your wish, you know? I’ve seen it happen many times.”
“But what about… I mean, what about the ink-wash drawings some of the priests do? Do you think there’s power in those?”
I’d overdone it; he was looking at me funny. We reached the other end of the boardwalk and turned toward the main shrine in the center.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that there are those who have great talents in this world. And surely these talents are given for a purpose.”
I wondered what purpose Tomohiro’s ability had, what this dark curse on him could be for.
“Listen, there’s something I think you’d be interested to see,” he said as we neared the main shrine. Past the slotted wooden box for tithes was an old wooden door, and Niichan stopped outside it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small ring of keys, then unlocked the door and slid it to the side, revealing a dark, dusty room. He flicked on the light switch as we stepped inside.
“These are some of the national treasures we keep here at the shrine,” he said. “Some of them are very old, so we rotate the collection and keep them in this fireproof room.”
The room smelled of antiques, ancient wood and lacquer, dust and straw tatami on the floor. In the middle of the ceiling hung a square lamp, which cast shadows on the statues and paintings covering the walls. Fierce dogs of stone, teeth bared; bronze statues of bald-headed, chubby priests or princes or who knew what. Colorful woodblock paintings and several ink-wash landscapes.
“They’re beautiful,” I said. It was strange to think of all the history silently locked away in this room, half-forgotten.
“I thought you’d be interested because of the paintings you mentioned.” He smiled. “Many of these pieces are hundreds of years old, saved from the various fires Itsukushima Shrine went through. Some are more recent, of course.”
I approached one of the woodblocks, a painting in three panels shadowed by the square lamp above. A man stretched backward in agony, women and what might be diplomats in bright kimonos in desperate prayer beside him. Around him swirled horrible green-skinned demons and red-faced monsters, hands reaching for him and flames spiraling into inky darkness. The chaos in it unnerved me.
“That’s one of the most priceless in our collection,” Niichan said behind me. “One of the last woodblocks by Yoshitoshi.”
“Who’s the man?” I said, pointing to the arch of his back as he recoiled from the apparitions. The room felt stuffy, too warm for my liking.
“Taira no Kiyomori,” Niichan said. “A powerful leader in older times. He funded the restoration of this shrine in the twelfth century, which is why we have so many pieces relating to him. He was vicious at times, merciful at others, but very ambitious. He controlled Japanese politics by force for many years, creating ranks of samurai in the government.
He even forced the emperor to abdicate so he could place his own son on the throne.”
“Is that why all the demons?” I said, staring at the painting. I felt ill just looking at it, and yet I couldn’t look away.
A bead of sweat rolled down my face.
“Ah.” Niichan nodded. “When Taira was older, he fell into a horrible fever. Vivid nightmares every night, demons approaching him, shadow monsters whispering horrible things.
His fever burned everyone who touched him, they say. Eventually it killed him.”
My heart pounded in my ears. A powerful man with ties to the imperial family, hunted by nightmares until they killed him. Could he be a Kami, too?
And suddenly I saw that the flames in the picture were moving, f lickering back and forth in the inky darkness. I jumped back.
“Daijoubu?” Niichan asked.
“I’m not okay,” I whispered. “I thought I saw… There!
Did you see it?”
“What?”
Of course he’d think I was crazy. But I knew I’d seen it.
“Never mind,” I said, backing away from the woodblock. “It must be the heat. Do you guys keep this room so warm to preserve the treasures or something?”
“Katie,” Niichan said, and I looked at him. Suddenly the room was freezing.
“What’s going on?” I said, and Niichan’s face twisted with confusion.
“You saw the flames move, didn’t you?”
“What do you mean? That’s impossible,” I lied. Niichan shook his head.
“You felt the fire. Taira was a Kami, Katie, and so was Yoshitoshi, who painted this piece. But if you saw it move—
I don’t understand.” He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know how, Katie, but I think you’re a Kami.”
Reality shattered, everything around me slowing. “Me?”
“If you weren’t, the flames wouldn’t have danced for you.
Yoshitoshi’s Kami bloodline was faint. His ink only reacts to those whose Kami blood has been awakened.”
“I’m…I’m not…”
“You know what a Kami is,” Niichan said, and shocked by his words, I nodded. There was no sense denying it. “You’d have to know, to ask me the questions you did. Your drawings move, don’t they?”
“They don’t.” Except one time, but Tomohiro had been there. “And I couldn’t be a Kami.” I lifted a tangle of blond hair in my hand.
“That’s true,” Niichan said. “It shouldn’t be reacting to you, but it is. You must be tied to the Kami somehow. Why?”
I don’t know. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s why Tomohiro’s drawings are going haywire. “Niichan,” I said, nervous to spill the secret. “I know someone who—whose drawings move. But it’s worse when I’m around. The ink jumps off the page.”
Niichan’s eyebrows shot up. “You know such a powerful Kami? Be careful, Katie. Most aren’t capable of such things.
And if you’re influencing the ink, then it might be best if you don’t go near this Kami. Who knows what could happen?”
Like a dragon lifting into the sky? Too late.
“How do you know about Kami anyway?” I said. “You’re…
you’re not one, are you?”
He shook his head. “You just hear things when you work at a shrine, especially one with ancient connections like Itsukushima. Most people have forgotten about Kami. I shouldn’t even let on that I know, but you’re Yuki’s friend.
I was worried when you started asking about drawings having power.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s hard to find anything out about the Kami. I guess it’s a big secret to keep.”
Niichan moved forward, resting his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t tell anyone, Katie. Not even Yuki. She’s a good friend, but she has a big mouth.” I nodded and he dropped his hands, stepping out of the room as I followed behind. I felt nothing but ice and numbness as he slid the door shut and locked up the room of treasures, the room of the flickering fire. It occurred to me the room was fireproof to keep the painting from burning down the rest of the shrine, not to protect the treasures inside.
I walked in silence as we scaled the mountain, toward the wafting smell of Yuki’s curry bubbling.
I wasn’t a Kami, but I was tied to the ink somehow. And if I stayed with Tomohiro, we could lose everything.
I wondered what hope there was for him, what hope there was for me.
As I stood on the ferry waving goodbye to Niichan, Miyajima and the giant o-Torii gate dropped from sight. We sped through Hiroshima on the bullet train, through Osaka and Kyoto, moving closer and closer to Shizuoka. My mind was buzzing, despite the earache the train gave me. Could I really be connected to the Kami? I didn’t like the thought that whatever haunted Tomohiro was in my veins, too. The text from Tomohiro had been the only one I’d received, and after sending two or three unanswered, I’d stopped. I didn’t want to look desperate, and anyway, he must have a good reason for not replying. Or at least he better. Maybe Ishikawa had been looming over his shoulder all the time. And maybe he was actually getting some kendo training done.
Diane was still away for another week, and I was supposed to stay with Yuki’s family until she came back, so naturally I didn’t breathe a word of it to Yuki and came home to an empty mansion, mine alone for a whole week.
I dropped onto the couch and surfed through TV channels, mindlessly watching variety shows for a while. I tried to ignore the possibility that Niichan was right, but how could he be wrong? Though he’d admitted he didn’t have all the answers. Maybe I wasn’t tied to the Kami. Maybe the painting reacted to me because of my time with Tomohiro or something like that.
I sighed. I didn’t want to deal with this, especially on an empty stomach. I searched the kitchen cupboards but only came up with shrimp chips and bitter oolong tea.
I sat down with a bowl of the shrimp chips and flipped open my keitai. Still no messages. I phoned Tomohiro’s keitai, but it was off. I dialed his home phone, but it rang and rang.
When I got the answering machine, I hung up.
The panic was creeping through me, but I hadn’t wanted to admit it, not in Miyajima. But now, alone in my thoughts and alone in Shizuoka, I couldn’t put it off any longer.
What if the Yakuza got to him while I was away? What if something had happened to him?
No, it was ridiculous. He was probably just busy. And what were they going to do with him anyway? Just how dangerous could a paintbrush be?
The image of Tomohiro’s slashed wrist jumped to the front of my mind, all the cuts up and down his arm.
I phoned again, but still no answer. I watched the variety shows a little longer.
When I couldn’t stand the thoughts flashing through my head, I pulled on a light sweater and headed out to the conbini store to get some dinner.
I walked farther than I needed to, the cool night air calm-ing me down. In the mansion, the thoughts seemed to bounce off the walls and come back at me again, but out here they lifted into the air like clouds of glittering ink.
The doors of the conbini slid open as I approached, and I dropped my eyes from the teen clerk, heading straight to the refrigerated aisle. My eyes fell on the desserts, then the bentous.
I picked out unagi with rice and gyoza on the side, and then chose a purin pudding for dessert. Then I stared at the drinks for a while, trying with effort to read all the different choices.
“Katie?” My body froze, but my thoughts took off at top speed, rattling around in my head until I didn’t know whether to run or face the voice. I turned, slowly, and saw a familiar face tilting at me, eyes filled with curiosity. The lick of blond at his ears. The glint of his silver earring.
“Jun,” I said, the panic reining itself in. He smiled at me, and I realized I’d probably looked like a nervous idiot the way I’d jumped.
“What a coincidence,” he said. Then, deciding it wasn’t too rude to comment on my jitters, he added, “Are you okay?”
How is Miyajima? Training started today. Katakou’s sensei is tough. Sato thinks you and I are spending too much time together. He’s joking that you’re seeing Takahashi on the side. —Tomo
I read the message again, scouring it for the messages hidden underneath. If Ishikawa thought we were spending too much time together, it must mean he was pestering Tomohiro about the Kami thing. My cheeks flushed when I read about Jun. Was he actually worried about it? I didn’t want to explain myself and come off looking dumb. Or worse, defensive.
I thought carefully, then typed a response.
Miyajima is beautiful, more fun than a sweaty old kendo summer. I only saw Takahashi at Sunpu when Ishikawa was being a—I deleted what I’d originally put, and tried again—
jerk.
I stared at it for a while, then clicked Send. I couldn’t risk any hidden messages of my own, anything that might give him away. I hoped my concern went with the message, because I was out of my mind over here on this tranquil island, unable to do anything to help.
In the morning, we took the ropeway up the mountain and searched for monkeys with Niichan’s binoculars. When the afternoon got too hot, we had plenty of summer homework to keep us occupied in the little house while we blasted the air-con.
Niichan and I went for a walk while Yuki perfected her chicken curry for dinner. We talked about the weather, the sights in Miyajima, about New York and Canada, and my life straddled between the two. When we reached Itsukushima Shrine, we wandered straight in, walking along the boardwalk planks above the water, through the long tunnels of orange and white that snaked along the building.
“Niichan,” I said, looking down at the big koi circling the stilts of the shrine.
“Hmm?”
“Could you tell me about the kami? ”
“There are so many.” He laughed. “Here at Itsukushima the principal kami are the three daughters of Susanou.”
“Susanou,” I said. The name sounded familiar.
Niichan nodded. “The god of storms,” he said. “Amaterasu’s brother.”
My blood froze, but I forced my feet on so Niichan wouldn’t notice. Amaterasu was the source of power, Tomohiro had said. All the Kami’s abilities came from her.
“Do you—do you think,” I stuttered, hoping I wouldn’t sound ridiculous. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Do you think the kami were real?”
Niichan’s footsteps stopped. I opened my eyes and saw his face creased in all sorts of worry lines. I’d gone too far now, I thought, but then he smiled. “All I know is that there is a lot of power in the shrines,” he said. “If you pray, you get your wish, you know? I’ve seen it happen many times.”
“But what about… I mean, what about the ink-wash drawings some of the priests do? Do you think there’s power in those?”
I’d overdone it; he was looking at me funny. We reached the other end of the boardwalk and turned toward the main shrine in the center.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that there are those who have great talents in this world. And surely these talents are given for a purpose.”
I wondered what purpose Tomohiro’s ability had, what this dark curse on him could be for.
“Listen, there’s something I think you’d be interested to see,” he said as we neared the main shrine. Past the slotted wooden box for tithes was an old wooden door, and Niichan stopped outside it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small ring of keys, then unlocked the door and slid it to the side, revealing a dark, dusty room. He flicked on the light switch as we stepped inside.
“These are some of the national treasures we keep here at the shrine,” he said. “Some of them are very old, so we rotate the collection and keep them in this fireproof room.”
The room smelled of antiques, ancient wood and lacquer, dust and straw tatami on the floor. In the middle of the ceiling hung a square lamp, which cast shadows on the statues and paintings covering the walls. Fierce dogs of stone, teeth bared; bronze statues of bald-headed, chubby priests or princes or who knew what. Colorful woodblock paintings and several ink-wash landscapes.
“They’re beautiful,” I said. It was strange to think of all the history silently locked away in this room, half-forgotten.
“I thought you’d be interested because of the paintings you mentioned.” He smiled. “Many of these pieces are hundreds of years old, saved from the various fires Itsukushima Shrine went through. Some are more recent, of course.”
I approached one of the woodblocks, a painting in three panels shadowed by the square lamp above. A man stretched backward in agony, women and what might be diplomats in bright kimonos in desperate prayer beside him. Around him swirled horrible green-skinned demons and red-faced monsters, hands reaching for him and flames spiraling into inky darkness. The chaos in it unnerved me.
“That’s one of the most priceless in our collection,” Niichan said behind me. “One of the last woodblocks by Yoshitoshi.”
“Who’s the man?” I said, pointing to the arch of his back as he recoiled from the apparitions. The room felt stuffy, too warm for my liking.
“Taira no Kiyomori,” Niichan said. “A powerful leader in older times. He funded the restoration of this shrine in the twelfth century, which is why we have so many pieces relating to him. He was vicious at times, merciful at others, but very ambitious. He controlled Japanese politics by force for many years, creating ranks of samurai in the government.
He even forced the emperor to abdicate so he could place his own son on the throne.”
“Is that why all the demons?” I said, staring at the painting. I felt ill just looking at it, and yet I couldn’t look away.
A bead of sweat rolled down my face.
“Ah.” Niichan nodded. “When Taira was older, he fell into a horrible fever. Vivid nightmares every night, demons approaching him, shadow monsters whispering horrible things.
His fever burned everyone who touched him, they say. Eventually it killed him.”
My heart pounded in my ears. A powerful man with ties to the imperial family, hunted by nightmares until they killed him. Could he be a Kami, too?
And suddenly I saw that the flames in the picture were moving, f lickering back and forth in the inky darkness. I jumped back.
“Daijoubu?” Niichan asked.
“I’m not okay,” I whispered. “I thought I saw… There!
Did you see it?”
“What?”
Of course he’d think I was crazy. But I knew I’d seen it.
“Never mind,” I said, backing away from the woodblock. “It must be the heat. Do you guys keep this room so warm to preserve the treasures or something?”
“Katie,” Niichan said, and I looked at him. Suddenly the room was freezing.
“What’s going on?” I said, and Niichan’s face twisted with confusion.
“You saw the flames move, didn’t you?”
“What do you mean? That’s impossible,” I lied. Niichan shook his head.
“You felt the fire. Taira was a Kami, Katie, and so was Yoshitoshi, who painted this piece. But if you saw it move—
I don’t understand.” He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know how, Katie, but I think you’re a Kami.”
Reality shattered, everything around me slowing. “Me?”
“If you weren’t, the flames wouldn’t have danced for you.
Yoshitoshi’s Kami bloodline was faint. His ink only reacts to those whose Kami blood has been awakened.”
“I’m…I’m not…”
“You know what a Kami is,” Niichan said, and shocked by his words, I nodded. There was no sense denying it. “You’d have to know, to ask me the questions you did. Your drawings move, don’t they?”
“They don’t.” Except one time, but Tomohiro had been there. “And I couldn’t be a Kami.” I lifted a tangle of blond hair in my hand.
“That’s true,” Niichan said. “It shouldn’t be reacting to you, but it is. You must be tied to the Kami somehow. Why?”
I don’t know. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s why Tomohiro’s drawings are going haywire. “Niichan,” I said, nervous to spill the secret. “I know someone who—whose drawings move. But it’s worse when I’m around. The ink jumps off the page.”
Niichan’s eyebrows shot up. “You know such a powerful Kami? Be careful, Katie. Most aren’t capable of such things.
And if you’re influencing the ink, then it might be best if you don’t go near this Kami. Who knows what could happen?”
Like a dragon lifting into the sky? Too late.
“How do you know about Kami anyway?” I said. “You’re…
you’re not one, are you?”
He shook his head. “You just hear things when you work at a shrine, especially one with ancient connections like Itsukushima. Most people have forgotten about Kami. I shouldn’t even let on that I know, but you’re Yuki’s friend.
I was worried when you started asking about drawings having power.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s hard to find anything out about the Kami. I guess it’s a big secret to keep.”
Niichan moved forward, resting his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t tell anyone, Katie. Not even Yuki. She’s a good friend, but she has a big mouth.” I nodded and he dropped his hands, stepping out of the room as I followed behind. I felt nothing but ice and numbness as he slid the door shut and locked up the room of treasures, the room of the flickering fire. It occurred to me the room was fireproof to keep the painting from burning down the rest of the shrine, not to protect the treasures inside.
I walked in silence as we scaled the mountain, toward the wafting smell of Yuki’s curry bubbling.
I wasn’t a Kami, but I was tied to the ink somehow. And if I stayed with Tomohiro, we could lose everything.
I wondered what hope there was for him, what hope there was for me.
As I stood on the ferry waving goodbye to Niichan, Miyajima and the giant o-Torii gate dropped from sight. We sped through Hiroshima on the bullet train, through Osaka and Kyoto, moving closer and closer to Shizuoka. My mind was buzzing, despite the earache the train gave me. Could I really be connected to the Kami? I didn’t like the thought that whatever haunted Tomohiro was in my veins, too. The text from Tomohiro had been the only one I’d received, and after sending two or three unanswered, I’d stopped. I didn’t want to look desperate, and anyway, he must have a good reason for not replying. Or at least he better. Maybe Ishikawa had been looming over his shoulder all the time. And maybe he was actually getting some kendo training done.
Diane was still away for another week, and I was supposed to stay with Yuki’s family until she came back, so naturally I didn’t breathe a word of it to Yuki and came home to an empty mansion, mine alone for a whole week.
I dropped onto the couch and surfed through TV channels, mindlessly watching variety shows for a while. I tried to ignore the possibility that Niichan was right, but how could he be wrong? Though he’d admitted he didn’t have all the answers. Maybe I wasn’t tied to the Kami. Maybe the painting reacted to me because of my time with Tomohiro or something like that.
I sighed. I didn’t want to deal with this, especially on an empty stomach. I searched the kitchen cupboards but only came up with shrimp chips and bitter oolong tea.
I sat down with a bowl of the shrimp chips and flipped open my keitai. Still no messages. I phoned Tomohiro’s keitai, but it was off. I dialed his home phone, but it rang and rang.
When I got the answering machine, I hung up.
The panic was creeping through me, but I hadn’t wanted to admit it, not in Miyajima. But now, alone in my thoughts and alone in Shizuoka, I couldn’t put it off any longer.
What if the Yakuza got to him while I was away? What if something had happened to him?
No, it was ridiculous. He was probably just busy. And what were they going to do with him anyway? Just how dangerous could a paintbrush be?
The image of Tomohiro’s slashed wrist jumped to the front of my mind, all the cuts up and down his arm.
I phoned again, but still no answer. I watched the variety shows a little longer.
When I couldn’t stand the thoughts flashing through my head, I pulled on a light sweater and headed out to the conbini store to get some dinner.
I walked farther than I needed to, the cool night air calm-ing me down. In the mansion, the thoughts seemed to bounce off the walls and come back at me again, but out here they lifted into the air like clouds of glittering ink.
The doors of the conbini slid open as I approached, and I dropped my eyes from the teen clerk, heading straight to the refrigerated aisle. My eyes fell on the desserts, then the bentous.
I picked out unagi with rice and gyoza on the side, and then chose a purin pudding for dessert. Then I stared at the drinks for a while, trying with effort to read all the different choices.
“Katie?” My body froze, but my thoughts took off at top speed, rattling around in my head until I didn’t know whether to run or face the voice. I turned, slowly, and saw a familiar face tilting at me, eyes filled with curiosity. The lick of blond at his ears. The glint of his silver earring.
“Jun,” I said, the panic reining itself in. He smiled at me, and I realized I’d probably looked like a nervous idiot the way I’d jumped.
“What a coincidence,” he said. Then, deciding it wasn’t too rude to comment on my jitters, he added, “Are you okay?”
