twelve

By LJ Farrow

This anthology of short stories tells the story of the Akai, the twelve ninja-vampire priests of the Dragon Sect, chosen to protect Azuma, the Dragon Goddess and protagonist of east, Book 3 of the Morningstar Series. Twelve is the story of their mythology and their origins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blueframe Publishing
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798987058251

Book preview

Introduction

The characters in this book seem like old friends, but some are more elusive than others.  Some we feel we know; others thus far have been set pieces on a massive chessboard.  Important, but largely relegated to the background.  Much like the Akai before the Morningstar.  They were there, doing their jobs, and that was enough.

But they had an allure that was not lost on me; I certainly wanted to know why  they were the way they were, and some of them spoke to me very clearly about who  they were, others not at all.  Here, their lives are explored unflinchingly; I must warn that there are depictions of violence and trauma.  There are also celebrations of resiliency, redemption, and love.

This book can be read in any order the reader would like to approach it.  While it contains a narrative thread that connects each priest to a central story, it is ultimately just a collection of short stories.   

If the reader feels compelled to learn about Jūichi, for example, they could start with his story and go to the others in random order.  Said order driven solely by the demands of curiosity and preference.

Some of you (I know exactly who you are) will insist on reading left to right, from Ichi to Jūni, hoping for chronology to assist you in understanding the larger story.  This is not compulsory, but I understand the impulse and the need to be methodical.  I simply ask your forbearance when the unanswered questions are not answered any more quickly than if one simply started in the middle. 

Finally, a short note about names.  Thus far, the convention has been to refer to the Akai by number, or the order of their rank by ascension.  Because the readers of the Morningstar series know the fixed assignments of the modern Akai, it would be confusing to try to refer to any other person as that character. 

In other words, Roku was not always Six.  He had to be Twelve, Eleven, Ten, Nine, Eight, and Seven at some time prior to becoming Six.  So, Anong’s boyfriend, the weapons specialist, was once not  Six.

Conversely, Ichi was not the only Ichi in the history of the Akai, but she has never  had any other number.  Her story is unique in a very special way.  The Dragon Goddess sanctioned her ‘cutting in line.’

So I endeavor not to confuse you by expecting you to get to know a Roku other than the one you have already gotten used to.  In the history of the Order of the Akai Hogo-sha there have, by necessity, been other priests.  For the purposes of this story, these individuals are referred to by a given name, not a number.  Every time you see the name Roku, I am referring to Anong’s boyfriend.  Every time you see the name Ichi, I am referring to the schoolteacher, the General.

But as always, there’s a catch.  Roku had another name before he underwent the Blood Ritual, as did Ichi before him.  I have done my best to divide each individual’s life story in stages, introducing you to them as their story unfolds.  For assistance and ease of understanding, I have included a Character Index at the end of the book so that you can review these connections to your satisfaction, or curse my name to the heavens for making you work when you are just trying to read.  It is a crutch most of you won’t even need, and the good news is that there won’t be a test later.

ichi

Aoyuma

Echigo Province, Matsuda Daimyo, 1657-1664

In the mornings, Aoyuma came awake with the dawn, as she had for as long as she could remember.  What she could not remember was that it had been her Haha  who had told her the story about how Amateratsu would first brighten the sky and then touch the foreheads of blessed little girls so that they could come awake to see it. 

She slept on her side, always at the edge of the mattress, ready to move.  After her mother had died, she had become the mistress of the small house she had then shared with her father, and she had many things to do each morning to help run the household, as they had no servants.

Indeed it had not been long before her father, drowning in his own grief and unable to look upon Aoyuma without thinking of the girl’s mother, had sent her away for good.

Sent her to the home of Matsuda, a powerful nobleman to the west, whose own wife had died.  Matsuda had a daughter in need of a companion, and a handmaiden.  Both Aoyuma, and the girl who was now her charge, were nine years old.  Unbeknownst to the girl at the time, that event had been the greatest blessing of Aoyuma’s life.

She had been heartbroken to be sent from her home and all that she knew, old enough to understand that her father’s indifference outweighed his affection.  She assumed, as all girls are taught to assume, that she was a disappointment because she had not been born a son.  There was no rebellion in her, he could have simply cast her out to an uncertain fate, and this would not have been questioned.  They were poor; it was doubtful she was marriageable as she would have no dowry to tempt a suitor.  Aoyuma wondered at what small price her father had accepted from Matsuda to send her away.  She was worth more to him gone; a burden he would no longer have to feed or clothe.

But in her new home, she had no time to dwell on either this or the fresh heartbreak of losing her mother, as she was kept busy from dawn to dusk.  She did as she always had, slept there on her side, at the edge of the mattress, at the ready to roll off of it and onto her feet.  For seven years she had dressed herself, said her prayers, and then dutifully attended her mistress, only turning back to her own needs once the girl was again abed for the night.

Sumida was kind to her, and treated her like a treasured sister.  Of immense importance was their education.  Matsuda expected his daughter would marry well, and would make a most useful companion and wife if she could read and write, the better to run the household of a powerful man.  Aoyuma also was the recipient of this blessing of an education, and took to it so readily as to astonish the tutors.  These kind men spoke of her gifts to Matsuda, who, fond of Aoyuma and assuming the girl would be bound to Sumida for life, lifted from her many other daily responsibilities to ensure she received this education as well.

But it was not to be: Aoyuma’s tenure was tragically foreshortened when, at sixteen, Sumida, who had already been promised to the powerful daimyo to the south, grew ill.  Many doctors were summoned from far and wide.  Though a war raged on against foreigners in Nihon, even the Shogun, Iemitsu, offered his private physicians to help.

These noble men shook their heads and went away much more quietly and soberly than the ceremony with which they had arrived.  They whispered to Matsuda over Sumida’s bed, and both young women heard the awful truth.  There was nothing to be done.  Sumida could not be saved.

And suddenly, beyond prayers and dressing herself, there had been little to be done.  Mourning had been distressingly idle; Aoyuma almost wishing that her household duties had never been suspended, needing something in which to lose herself.

And afterward, Sumida’s betrothed visited the shouen, and there was an argument up at the house.  Matsuda handling the insult with grace and quiet authority.  Aoyuma watched from the garden as the daimyo and his attendants rode away to the south.  She could not tell whether or not he acutely felt the loss of a new wife or was merely inconvenienced by the death.

It was there, in the garden, that Matsuda-san  came to find her.  He sat down heavily on the stone bench overlooking the trees, a fit man of younger middle age, handsome, with kind eyes and a gentle voice.  He had never made Aoyuma feel afraid, but she was afraid now.  He patted the seat next to him to indicate she should sit, so she bowed and complied with this, keeping her eyes cast downward, prepared for unwelcome news.  What he said, what he did, surprised her.

I wrote to your father, to see whether he should desire your return, he told her.  Aoyuma was astonished to learn of this, but less astonished with the reported outcome.  Her father had not bothered himself with a response.  It was answer enough.

It would seem I am faced with the dilemma of your future, he told her.  "Several options before me, any and all of which you have the right to know of as they shall affect a life perhaps as disrupted as my own.

I have paid the dowry to my expectant son-in-law, as is proper, as his aims have been frustrated through no fault of his own.  He offered to take you to his household as promised, but I disdained on your behalf.  I would think, because of your birth, and your heritage, that such an arrangement would not be the best for you.  May the gods forgive me for saying it, but I am relieved that he and I shall not be related by marriage, nearly as much as I am aggrieved by my own loss. 

Aoyuma heard what he did not say, that she would not have to be treated respectfully even had the man taken Sumida as his wife, that she  had been the cause of the argument, that Matsuda had protected her.  Perhaps she was fortunate; once Aoyuma had become a member of the new household, the master could do as he pleased with her.

"If I keep you here, it raises questions about your honor, questions that would be raised irrespective of any arrangement I make.  My behavior now must be such that you receive the best possible protection. 

I could make you my consort; this would afford you the right to my protection and some modicum of respect, but I fear I would do you a disservice by saddling you with this old man.  Here he smiled, seeing her subtle disagreement, the small shake of her head that she gave him out of respect, and perhaps a newfound love, realizing he was fond of her.  It amused him that she felt duty- and honor-bound to shore up his ego.  He waved his hand gently in her direction, as a way to tell her she did not have to spare his feelings. 

I can well imagine how old I must seem to you, and I would not ask you to find feelings for me of that sort although I recognize you have some sense about what is proper.  It creates a conundrum that benefits neither of us; for society to recognize my protection over you, you must bear me sons, which means you must come to my bed, and I must physically prove my affection.  Yet any sons you bear would not be recognized as my heirs, would simply become part of this household, with their fates, and yours, uncertain upon my death.  I do not wish this for you.

Aoyuma remained silent.  It was not for her to participate in this, it was not a conversation.  Her place was to listen and submit to his wishes.  She fixed her mind to start believing and thinking of him as a lover; he was kind, and handsome, and she knew that he had kept her from the unkindest fate by denying his son-in-law her indenture.  What came next was the biggest surprise of all.

He turned to look at her.  Taking her chin gently in his hand, he lifted it, wanting her to look at him.  Reluctantly, she did so.  When she finally was able to make eye contact, he smiled at her, and said, "I want to know what you  would like."

Seeing that she was going to be agreeable out of habit and excellence of manner, he held up a finger.  The truth, my dear.  Don’t tell me you could love me just to please my sensibilities. I understand you will do your duty.

"I could  love you," she allowed quietly, and they both heard the truth of it.  She meant it; she already did, in her way.  But she couldn’t imagine herself in his bed without some natural hesitation.  It took a mental pivot that she had not prepared for; he could see this clearly.

I could provide a dowry for you- he began again, but this she stopped with an interrupting shake of her head.

Who would have me?  I have no pedigree that any man would seek alliance to, and your offering of such a dowry would- Aoyuma stopped suddenly, curtailing her statement to avoid being unseemly, unladylike.

Yes.  Would make it appear that I had already defiled you. Matsuda finished the thought for her.  "So I ask you, what would you have me do?  What do you want for your life?  For it is yours, as surely as mine is mine, gods forgive me for saying something so unpopular aloud."

This time, Aoyuma did not bother to hide her smile, but she kept her eyes on her feet.  I would – I would wish to be a teacher.  She bowed, understanding that it was a ridiculous request, hardly a viable alternative to taking his protection however she could get it.

Clever girl. I think you have fastened upon the answer, he told her, and she was surprised to hear the hope in his voice.  Perhaps, I could offer one of the smaller villages under my patronage your services as a teacher, endow an allowance for your support.  I could say it is done because I can no longer keep you in the household with my daughter gone, that it would dishonor me to fail to uphold the agreement I made with your father to provide your living.

Try as she might, Aoyuma doubted that she was arranging her face as appropriately as good form called for, but Matsuda made no protest.  Her excitement was understandable, and he was just as pleased to have come to a solution that settled his chagrin about her uncertain future.

Matsuda did not linger, he stood up suddenly and cleared his throat in an odd way.  Then did something awkward with his hands, as though he would touch Aoyuma’s head, but deciding it could be improperly interpreted by others in the household who might be observing them, he turned away and left her there in the garden, alone with her shock and her hope.

Gakkōno, the Schoolteacher

Echigo Province, Shimazu Daimyo, 1665-1675

Thus, after spending even fewer years at Matsuda than she had in her birthplace, she found herself starting over once more.

Oumi was a tiny fishing village at the crossroads of the market road out of Yokohama and the road that traversed Mount Kurohime where it rose inland to the east.  Northeast of Hoyama Bay, the town faced west across the Sea of Japan.  The air was crisp and clean, and lovely vistas surrounded it.

Matsuda’s chaperone made the proper introductions to the innkeeper’s wife, who accepted responsibility for the new Gakkōno.  She was invited into the inn to rest, and taken the very next day to the local prefect to be registered there.  The magistrate had a fussy nature and greedy eyes, but he nodded gruffly and gave her the papers she would need for traveling, and for using her allowance.  He honored Matsuda’s instructions regarding her independence in this, but Aoyuma could tell he could scarce believe a woman should be in charge of money.

The innkeeper’s wife also made the introduction to the landlord who cared for the small dwelling that Matsuda had specified for her, and the landlord and his wife gave her a tour of the village.  They seemed pleased that their town would be blessed with a schoolteacher, and this comforted Aoyuma somewhat.  They also seemed surprised at her relative youth, but observed custom and asked no questions of her.

Now when she awoke, still poised there at the edge of the mattress, ready for anything, her readiness was unnecessary, as the only person who required any action from her at all was herself. She had only her own concerns to attend.

It was such a foreign concept, and for the first several weeks, slightly uncomfortable.  To realize that one had time to take with one’s tea, time to ease into the day.  Time to stretch, and pray, and look out the window to the sea.

The well behind the hut made a music all its own, the bamboo spout flipping up and down in rhythm, filling the bucket slowly as it waited to be used.  At night, she refilled her water jars and wedged the bucket beneath the spout to arrest this song as she slept.  Some nights she forgot, but even this after a few weeks became a part of the symphony of her new life, a counterpoint to the relentless rushing background of the waves.

Sometimes she tried to stay awake, fight off the strangely soothing effect of this natural lullaby, listening to the ways that the wind or the rain changed the sound of the water against the sand.  But soon it put her to sleep, increasingly easily it seemed, until she could no longer recall when she transitioned from the sound of the last wave of her consciousness to the first wave of her dreams.

And no more did she need Mother Amateratsu to wake her, because long before the light she heard the laughter and patter of the fishermen, some coming from beyond her home, making their way to the sea.  Their voices traveled over the water, and they sounded happy and free, for all that their toil made for a difficult and unforgiving way of life.

If she made it down to the beach on time, just before breakfast, there were fish to be had from the market on the pier, the first wave of boats returning only long enough to leave an early bounty.  Then, inevitably, they ran back to the sea for more.

And betimes of an evening the seaside was lit up brightly, so many lanterns it was like the light of day long after the sun had slipped behind the mountain.  These nights more industrious than the mornings, and certainly more raucous, the night crews two or three beers in, doing all they could to keep themselves awake for the night fishing.  The difference in the quality of their laughter intrigued her.

She walked freely here, along the beach, bold and unchaperoned, but by then, she was seen as an outsider, part of the village by necessity, but not really a part of that place.  Most of the families that lived along the coast had done so for many generations, and joked about the saltwater that flowed in their veins.  It was rare that anyone moved to this place or went away. 

Aoyuma had been sent there, set down unceremoniously, an unmatched outsider that everyone seemed overly deferent toward in their rare dealings with her.  No one used her given name, she was only ever addressed by her title, the children doing so formally, Gakkōno no sensei, and the adults truncating it to Gakkōno, as if that were her name.  It seemed to be the only thing they would ever call her, the closest they would ever get to knowing her.

Yet it bothered her not at all to be here, to be so obviously an outsider, because these simple people were kind and unassuming, and did not seem to need anything of her other than what she had come to provide.  If they approved or disapproved of her way of living, she could not tell.  And it surprised her that none of them seemed very curious about her at all.

She was not invited to dinner, did not have to dust off any of her courtly manners, which would have made her seem even more foreign, she guessed correctly.  For all that she lacked social status, her education set her apart here, made her seem unapproachable to many of the villagers. 

And her charges were very young; for the most part, their educations would be limited to the most basic of reading, writing, and calculations.  They would go to work in the market with their families, and many of them would spend more and more time out of school as they got older, expected to join their fathers on the water.  She was surprised and pleased to find that a number of families had sent her their girls to her for some simple education.

The children were well-behaved, charming even.  She seemed to mystify them, and she thought of her own tutors from her childhood, recognizing they saw her across a very great divide in their own imaginations.  In this, she did not complain, just took them through their lessons each day, and escaped to her small hut in the evening, and her cooking fire, her few books.

After several weeks of this soothing acclimation, she noticed she had a new visitor.  A young man from the village, hanging about out of doors while she gave monotonous instruction in the long, drowsy afternoons.  She had no idea what his aim might be, did not pay much heed; as he never interrupted or distracted the children, she had no complaint of him.

Oishi came from the sea. 

Oh, perhaps he had been born on land and later found the water, but he had embraced it readily, and it had accepted him.  He had something akin to love for it, something that Aoyuma could never quite share.

As a youngster, she had never thought of the water, had of course learned that such places existed, but she herself had never seen any of the oceans surrounding Honshu.  In this new home, it dominated the landscape; the people were tied to it.  Later, when she considered how it had all happened, it had a sort of symmetry that was both blessing and curse.

Sometimes, in the afternoons, she would visit the shrine on the hill, say her prayers, and wander down through the Shinto gates to the rocks on the promontory.  Here, she would sit on this peaceful perch, listening to the waves against the rocks below, sometimes lapping softly, other times crashing more vigorously.  When the wind changed, it would carry the sea spray to her, misting her hair, and her face.

On one of these days, when the sea was neither calm nor agitated, and she sat quietly contemplating all that she could see, she had an unexpected visitor to her sanctuary.  One moment she was alone, and the next, a man appeared, climbing onto the rock, coming up out of the sea like some marine kami, graceful and strong, pulling himself up.  His wet kobakama clung to his skin, and his torso was brown and freckled from the sun.  He threw his head back and this pushed his long hair away from his face.  The face of her afternoon school visitor.

If Aoyuma were surprised at this development, it did not match his surprise to discover her there; indeed, so shocked was he to encounter her so unexpectedly that he lost his grip and fell back into the sea.

Aoyuma gave a small cry and stood up quickly, stepping to the edge of the rock and looking down, nearly afraid of what she might see.  Worried that she had caused him harm.

She peered into the swirling waves below, inadvertently pacing, wondering should she run for one of the priests up on the hill.  And then, just as she despaired she could help him in time, again he broke the surface of those waves, and he blew out a long spout of water and laughed, joyfully.  He floated there, on his back, briefly, looking up at her mischievously.

Oh, she said, unable to keep this small gasp from escaping in her relief.  She felt her face burning with embarrassment and turned away, departing up the hill before he could climb back onto the rock.  She spared a glance back to make sure he was safely up and out of the water and saw him looking after her, watching her with an expression she could not read, but she turned for home and did not breathe out her excitement until she was safely within her own walls.

He continued to hang about the schoolhouse, inexplicably.  This she tried to ignore, unable to address him directly for some reason, which she found silly, as she did have some authority in that place, being the schoolmistress.

Finally, after many days of this continued haunting, at day’s long end, the children gone, with Aoyuma patiently cleaning her slates to start it all again the next day, he ventured inside the building. 

He seemed reluctant to approach, perhaps less shy than unsure, as something in his expression told her he was not uncomfortable with himself.  Perhaps he did not know how he was to be received.  His kimono and kobakama were well made, sturdy, a blue that set off his tanned skin, weathered from sea and sky.  His hair was slightly longer than fashionable, curling against his shoulders, and she guessed that perhaps he simply had little time to attend it.  His brown eyes were lively, mischievous.  He did something with his mouth that she liked, the way he moved it gave away some amusement.  He was well made, strong, and she particularly noticed the muscles of his forearms, his sturdy hands.  Youngish, probably no more than a half-decade older than she was.  His face sprinkled with freckles, time in the sun, she guessed.  She would later learn they were a gift from his mother.  A fisherman, surely.

But she bowed, giving him the benefit of her manners, and waited for him to speak.  He shook his head as if amused that she would waste such fancy etiquette on him, but humored her, giving his own abbreviated bow.  She could tell he was surprised at her behavior, perhaps had not expected this respect.

And still he did not speak, merely strode from one end of the room to the other, and stopped near the children’s abandoned slates, looking them over with real curiosity.

Would you like to learn to write? she asked, making sure he could hear that she was sincere in her offer, and now he looked at her with open astonishment, and something else she could not read.  He had expected mockery, perhaps.  That she did not have within her, only an abiding understanding of anyone hungry to learn.  She did not wait for him to answer, as it appeared he would not do so, but came near, nodding as she reached past him to pick up one of the clean slates to show it to him.

But he refused her offer of it, almost as if he were reluctant to accept it, and waved it away.  He did look at it thoughtfully, and then gently took her hand, giving her an expression that seemed to ask if such were acceptable.  Something like humor, or deprecation, a twist of his lips to reassure her. 

She nodded, willingly held out her hand, and he made short strokes of his fingers across her palm, a pantomime of sorts, as if to ask whether the slate were really necessary.  For the first time in her life she felt such a jolt of attraction to another human being it caught her completely unaware.  Something about that touch was so expressive of his feelings, his gentleness, his strength.  The rough texture of his palm against her soft one.  She almost cried out in protest when he lifted his hand away from hers.  Wanted to reach out and pull his hand back, feel that electrified touch again.

She felt the flush and the burn as the blood rose to her cheeks, but she kept her composure, and said, You’re right, the slate isn’t necessary.  I can teach you by touch as well.  The characters are simple enough.

He gestured for her to move outside with him, and she followed, closing up the schoolroom behind her.  He led her down the hill to the street nearest the sea, and then turned slightly northward, leading her onto a rocky plateau that climbed up out of the sandy beach beyond the last house at the edge of the village.  He found a suitable spot for them to sit together, on an expanse of flat rock, undaunted by her presence.  He settled close, companionably so, probably with not enough space between them for propriety’s sake.

She expected a fisherman to stink of his trade, but she could detect nothing unpleasant about his scent, it was clean, fresh air, a bit of saltiness, and she could see a faint bit of white on his neck where the salt spray had dried there.  She turned willingly, expectantly toward him.  He did not look at her, and the breeze coming off the sea blew his hair down over his forehead, obscuring his face as he held out his palm to her, gesturing that she could begin.

Where his curiosity to learn to write had been born she had no idea, and did not at that moment make the slightest connection between this desire to embark on a journey toward the letters of their shared language and any other wants he might be harboring about her.  She had lost Aoyuma long ago, and what she had found was Gakkōno, an identity that suited her because it gave her a name that cloaked her in its simplicity, in its purpose.  Descriptive enough, and utilitarian, she would have been willing to answer to it until the end of her days.

Until that moment, when he offered her his hand, vulnerable.  He had yet to say a word to her, but she recalled without difficulty the power of his touch, and she knew that she now lived only to hear his voice say her name.

And so they began, she made the first swirling motions on his open palm, the first sound, ah, saying it aloud for him to mimic, caring less about whether he understood than wanting just to hear him.

Ah.  His answer abrupt, and no nonsense, but the deep tone he produced seduced her anew, because there was a touch of humor in the response.

It took her several days to give him enough tutelage and marks to spell her name, breathless to see if he could puzzle out each character and make sense of the sounds she gave him.  He was quick, and clever, and she could not trick him.  He could guess the words she gave him, short common things he had known all his life.  When he couldn’t, she guided him through, sound by sound, stringing the phonemes together, until he would smile, and finish the word himself.

He easily caught on to the differences in the marks she made on his hand, and reproduced them on hers.  A vocabulary of familiar terms for a fisherman.  Until the four distinct characters that made up her name.  Aoyuma.

He reproduced it easily, his fingers racing across her palm, then resting there as he paused, thoughtful.  He gave her a look of suspicion and some amusement, but did not lift his fingers from her palm.  She laughed at his expression, hoping he would see that she was not laughing at him, never laughing about his education, and gave in.  She pointed to herself, indicating it was her name, and said it aloud.  Aoyuma.

He smiled, and to her chagrin, did not yet say it aloud.  He closed one eye, teasing her, and traced different characters on her hand, and she hoped it was his name, but she recognized something else, Gakkōno.  She realized she was leaning forward, so desirous was she to hear him say her name, or give her his own.

He relented, spelling across her palm once more, adding two characters to the end of her name.  Aoyuma-san.

And finally, that voice that touched her very core, spoke the name aloud, and hearing him say it broke something open inside of her, something she had feared she would never feel.  Something dangerous, raw, and new.  It made her both afraid and exhilarated.  She supposed he could see it.  Something in his eyes confirmed it.

She pointed again at herself, and then at him, but he shook his head and looked carefully at the sky.  The light had begun to change, and he reluctantly parted from her, turning back toward the lights of the town. 

She waited for a time, and then followed at a distance.  He was being chivalrous, not lingering after dark.  The town was too small for them to need any chaperone; by now, everyone had seen them together there on the rocks by the sea in the afternoons.  They were certainly monitored by committee.

But the izakaya  was open, working men gathering to drink and tell lies, and it was most proper for her to be back in her hut at full dark.  He studiously avoided walking back with her, and never came anywhere near her dwelling.  A most respectful gesture.

It wasn’t until they had built a whole catalogue of sounds for him to write and recognize, until she had gifted him with every tool he would need to communicate Nihongo in its beautiful entirety, that he began to emerge from his careful shell.  Occasionally asking her questions about this or that word, sometimes telling her something about the town, or his profession.  Once describing an idea he had for a fishing net.

She was emboldened enough within this shared intimacy to ask his name.  He smiled, and with a deliberate gentleness, his fingers whispering softly across her palm, he put down characters she recognized but was reluctant to accept.  He saw her flushed face and her consternation, so he repeated his movements, just as softly, but perhaps more deliberately and emphatically, with a flourish at the end to match his satisfied smile.  Lover.

That’s not your name, Aoyuma protested.  His touch certainly revealed the truth of it.

"Perhaps, where you  are concerned, it is," he remarked casually, as if he were commenting upon the weather and not pretending he had not just said something so forward, so shocking.

She decided he meant her to be shocked.  Wanted to ensure he had her full attention.  And it only increased the sense of intimacy she felt with him; this, another secret.  No need to be concerned because no one else would know what passed between them.  And then he withdrew with a mysterious smile, turning back to the village below, leaving her behind but no longer alone.

The next day, he did not come up the hill to the schoolroom; rather, Aoyuma was presented with a new acquaintance.  A woman, undoubtedly of middle years, given the style of her dress, lovely, with a freckled face that Aoyuma recognized as her gift to her son.

Aoyuma bowed respectfully, and this act seemed to make the woman as uncomfortable as it had her son.  She hastily returned the bow, once, twice, bobbing a bit, and it made Aoyuma think of a bird.  The overall effect was charming.

Gakkōno, she began, but Aoyuma corrected her, gently, not wanting to seem rude but needing to make sure that she paid proper respect to one who should have – and use – her given name.

Yes, well, you see, the woman began again, searching for her words, as she had clearly prepared a sort of speech, and Aoyuma had derailed her momentum.  How do you do?  It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.  My husband and I would like to extend an invitation to our home, to dine with us this evening, on behalf of our son, Oishi.

Aoyuma accepted gracefully, unable to stop the creeping flush that rose from her neck to the roots of her hair.  For some reason, her response evoked something similar in Oishi’s mother, who was perhaps imagining her own feelings in a similar predicament many years ago.  The two women made eye contact, and neither could suppress a laugh.

Oh dear, the older woman said, clasping Aoyuma’s hand.  He would say I have made a mess of things.

The man I know would do no such thing, Aoyuma spoke before she thought, and hoped she did not cause the woman any offense.  It was certainly not her intent to presume she knew this woman’s son better than his mother.  But she could see that her statement had been taken as she meant it, as a balm, not a challenge.

The woman smoothed her kimono and her hands fussed nervously with her obi.  I am Morumi, wife of Oniji.  I would be honored to welcome you to my home.  She turned away, pausing for a moment to ensure that Aoyuma followed her.

The last house facing the sea at the south end of the village was their destination, a modest cottage weathered by storms but well-maintained, with a remarkable side garden where many vegetables were growing.  Its porch wrapped around three sides, and the screens were sturdy canvas.  Two small boats, a variety of baskets, and an assortment of fishing nets were neatly stored along the outside of the north wall.

Indoors it was much the same, organized, utilitarian, with handmade cushions arranged around a low table that held steamed fish and rice with vegetables.

Aoyuma was introduced to Oniji-san, deciding that Oishi had more of his father in him than his mother.  It appeared that Oniji was just as predisposed to mischief, his mouth twisting in that same sardonic way when he greeted her.  It made her blush harder than she had when meeting his wife, unsure what he must think of her.

Then Oishi was there to take her hand, and spelled out his thoughts into her hand rather than speaking.  I hope the invitation is all right with you.

Indeed so, O-i-shi. She spelled out the three characters that comprised his name into his own palm and smiled her satisfaction.  Very different from your spelling, I think.

Oishi shook his head, knowing his mother had inadvertently betrayed his secret.  He smiled and scrawled on her open palm his reply.  The specifics of what you should call me are only important if you do not believe what I told you originally.

So I should call you ‘lover’ in front of your parents?  She scribbled her reply, and it was his turn to blush.  Oishi it is, then.

Aoyuma noticed then that Oniji and Morumi were standing to one side, watching carefully the silent exchange between their son and the schoolteacher.  She thought they were likely too polite and unassuming to ask questions, and she felt remiss for excluding them from the conversation.

I apologize, she said hurriedly, bowing a bit to punctuate this expression of contrition.  I fear we fall into the habit without thinking.  Oishi gave her a meaningful glance.

Oniji murmured, I think now it is even more understandable why my son has become so interested in learning to write.  But it was kindly said, and any teasing meant was directed at Oishi, although Aoyuma could feel the heat creep back into her face.

But once they had all seated themselves for dinner, she felt at ease, a part of them, and they took her in as their own.  After that she was rarely alone, it was as if they subsumed her, took up their lives with her in it.  And this was so naturally done that she had no time for worry over it.

Some months later, walking along the beach one evening, Oishi noticed that Aoyuma avoided letting the waves touch her feet.  He stopped, tilting his head and squinting at her.  He turned his back to the sea and took her hands, then moved slowly backwards, letting the waves run onto his feet, wanting her to step into the water.

She shook her head, not wanting this.

Afraid?  He asked the question of her, tracing it on her palm.  He shrugged.  He didn’t understand.

She shrugged back.  She didn’t know why, but she was afraid.

Do you trust me? Oishi asked her, raising one brow as if to challenge her.

She nodded, but he could see that her fear was real, so he nodded back in reassurance.

Take one step forward.  All you have to do is come to me, he said softly, and there was something seductive in that suggestion.

So she did, and he did not let go of her hands.

Close your eyes, he said, still nodding at her to show her all was well.

Aoyuma did not want to, but she did want to prove her trust, so she did so.

Do you hear her?  She is whispering tonight, she doesn’t whisper every night, but tonight she is talking with Fūjin.  Did you know that the sea and the wind are lovers?  Tonight they are in accord, and they whisper to one another.  If you wait a moment, she will caress your toes.  All this Oishi said softly, as if to lull her, and it worked.

She felt the tiny waves lapping at her feet, soft over her toes, and then the tug as she sank slightly in the wet sand as it pulled away under her heels.  She wanted to laugh.  It wasn’t so bad after all.

He taught her when there was time, and she knew he made time for her, sometimes staying awake in the evenings when he should have rested for the arduous work he had to face in the early mornings.

Put her in one of the little boats he used in the shallows, beckoned her to lie down in it as he walked it out into the waves.  Showed her how to stretch her arms over the sides to dangle in the water as he held the boat, never leaving her side.

She rocks you, and it is so soothing, you see? he told her, and bade her close her eyes again, and she listened to the lapping of the water against the side of the small craft, the way it tried to push him away sometimes.

She wants you to herself, Aoyuma would say, whenever a stray wave knocked the boat into him.

So he coaxed her out, into the water with him, such that they could be pushed and pulled together, bobbing up and down away from shore.  Once, on a calm afternoon, near the rocks below the shrine, shielded from curious eyes, he had lifted her up on the surface, taught her to float there on her back before pulling her close, lifting her garments.  And the sea was cool on her skin, but Oishi’s kisses were warm as he readied her, awoke places she had never been touched, taking her further and further, gifting her with these lessons of intimacy.  Until one day he finally claimed her, matching his gentle rhythm with that of the waves, rising, falling, relentless, until she was replete, forgetting to be self-conscious about the Shinto priests only steps away when she cried out in her pleasure, clinging to Oishi’s wet shoulders.  But this, too, was drowned out by the sea, which kept their secrets.

Oishi forbade her to swim in certain conditions, kept her out when the rip tides were at their worst.  They are arguing today, he’d say, of Wind and Sea.

And when winter came, and the godly couple fought, Wind and Sea making ugly storms, even he and his father did not venture out on the water, wisely spending such days inside by the cooking fire, mending nets and resting.

By spring, when the trees were blossoming, Oniji-san had inquired of Aoyuma to whom he should ask to make the match between her and his son.  She had a moment of panic, wondering what her father might have to say, but remembered he had no right to consent for her any longer, and she told Oishi’s father that Matsuda should be asked for the blessing.  Oishi surprised both of them by volunteering to write to him, eager to use his letters for the happy task.  Matsuda’s response was swift and warmly worded; he was delighted that his adopted daughter had found her happiness.

Indeed, Aoyuma was happy.  She had found a happiness of the most sublime kind.  She was a frequent and devout visitor to the shrine on the hill, never forgetting to thank the gods for her good fortune, spending extra time on her prayers to Ebisu, the large-eared Shinto god of fishermen.

Oishi worked through the summer months, and she saw little of him in the hours before or after supper.  She and Morumi watched as he and his father built another cottage, some small way down the beach from the one he had grown up in.

And every night, he swam out from the sand, so far out she could not see him anymore, and her heart grew faint every time, until he climbed back up the shore, until the sea gave him back.  To safety.  To her.  He told her once, after refusing to visit the shrine with her, unsure and untrusting of the old gods, I say my prayers on the water.

Just as he never discouraged any of her expressions of faith, neither did she make any protest over his time in or on the sea.  Their love made room even for their differences.

She noticed as their wedding day approached that he kept a distance from her.  He was avoiding their shared swims, their small intimacies.  His knowing smile was enough to show her he did it with a purpose, and she knew he wanted her to be hungry for him, knew he was denying himself these stolen pleasures in favor of what was to come.

The sea was angry for those first weeks after he finished their home, and it stormed on their wedding day, but Aoyuma disdained such omens, could not find anything to dampen her delight that they could finally be alone together, openly.

He undressed her on their shared bed, his fingers tracing his own happy news across her trembling belly, kanai to issho desu. I am with my wife.

And even like a storm sometimes drives the waves against the shore, as it did on that night, so did he match its rhythm, moving her with a strength and passion that threatened to overwhelm her senses – then slowing again, and again, more like the small waves along the boat, lifting her up, watching her, waiting for her.  Smiling with this mischief, not hurried.

Night after night, so much loving, until with a look he could push her to the edge and past it, gasping, grasping his upper arms, fearing the earth might let her go.  So much happiness until Aoyuma knew it had escaped the reach of her embrace and become joy.

Oishi loved to tease.  This was because he had learned to be a husband from his father.  And Oniji cherished Morumi, not hiding any of his affection for her, not sparing her one iota of his good humor.

Oishi came home on the eve of their first anniversary carefully balancing a bucket of water, making sure he did not spill a drop.  When he was certain Aoyuma was watching him, he made his movements even more exaggerated, and she tried to hide her laugh behind her hand, but he was already triumphant in his ability to amuse.

They ate dinner together in companionable silence, unusual for her talkative husband, who kept stealing glances at the bucket.  And looking at the sky.

Oishi. Aoyuma knew she had a role to play in this drama, and he seemed disappointed with her response thus far.  She touched his hand and sighed.  What is in the bucket?

I brought you a few of the stars, he told her; like a child he seemed pleased with himself, pleased that she had finally inquired about this strange industry.

Stars?  Where are they? Aoyuma asked.

There.  In the bucket, he gestured absently, as if he were certain she would not be interested.

Aoyuma crossed to the bucket and peered in carefully, wary of some sea creature swimming about in there.  But all she saw was water.  She glanced at him quizzically.

He shrugged, and got up and came over to her, as if he were greatly put upon to do it.  He gestured again to the bucket.

She, skeptical, leaned closer, but could still see nothing.  But it did give Oishi the opportunity to flick water from the surface onto her face with his wriggling fingers.  And then she did laugh.  And splash him back.

He held up a hand, laughing and managing to look horrified at the same time.  Ok, fair.  But stop.  Really.  It’s important.

How long will it take? she asked.

He checked the windows, looked exaggeratedly out through the open doorway.  Not long.

Can we finish our dinner? she inquired, giving him a look with a lift of her eyebrow.  He recognized it as the same one she gave the children from time to time.  It worked on him in about the same manner it did on them.  He relented.

Of course.  I apologize, he indicated they should resume their meal.  "Did I mention this  is delicious?"

Aoyuma stopped eating long enough to give him a different look.  A critical variation on the first one.  The look.  One that tells husbands, small children, and animals to behave.  Or else.

Oishi reached over and ran the back of his finger down her face and along her neck.  Gently.  It elicited the same shiver of desire as always.  He merely smiled, satisfied, and returned his attention to his plate.

Sometime after sunset, he pinched out their few candles and gently guided her back to the bucket.  He took her hand in his, slowly submerging it into the water, and twirled their entwined fingers beneath the surface.  Glowing motes swirled around their hands, bright points of light, like the night sky.

Stars.  To mark time.  Togetherness.

She laughed aloud.  Stars in a bucket.  Stars for her.

In their bed, he inscribed this secret of the sea onto her skin with his fingers.  A tiny sea creature, trying to attract a mate.  Demystified the magic, though once she knew the truth, she was no less enchanted.  No less entranced each year when he repeated the gesture to mark each milestone of their time together.

He never failed to surprise and delight her.  And in ten years, disappointed her only once.

But the disappointment was grave, and from it she never recovered.

One night, he swam out to his prayers as he always had, but this time, the sea did not give him back.  Aoyuma waited on the sand, holding his empty kimono, because she knew he would be cold without it.  It was not enough to will him to return.

She was shaking and crying so hard she could barely see by the time she stumbled the hundred steps to the door of his parents’ cottage, waking them from peaceful slumber with the report that Oishi had not returned.

Oniji flew into action, rousing several other men in the village.  Boats were mobilized in the darkness, their lanterns far out over the sea, as Morumi tried to calm Aoyuma, unsuccessfully trying to pull her inside for tea, to rest.

Aoyuma watched the lanterns burn through the night, hearing faintly the calls of the men over the water, returning at dawn without her Oishi.  Oniji’s grief was expressed in the defeated posture of his strong shoulders, and for the first time since Aoyuma had met him, she thought he looked old.  Ancient, aged in just one night.

When his eyes met those of his wife, Morumi knew, and her legs gave way as she sank to the floor, looking around as though lost.  Her hope had been in her husband’s hands, surely his father could find their son, and when he returned alone, the denial had to be abandoned entirely.

Oniji reached then for Aoyuma, standing numb and forlorn, watching it all, wishing she would wake from this cruel dream.  His hand closed gently on her forearm, and she looked down at it, so like that of her own husband, and noticed she still clutched Oishi’s kimono in her hands.  She gently pulled away, extricating herself, and ran, away back down the beach to the empty cottage, and took up her place in the sand once more, facing the empty sea, not yet ready to surrender to the truth.

The schoolhouse remained closed and empty.  The children who queued up outside it that first day waited in vain, eventually giving up and drifting away, singly, returning to their homes without answers.  No Gakkōno.

Aoyuma kept her vigil in the sand, sitting stubbornly until her legs were numb, refusing to move. 

Morumi approached her on the third day, and sat next to her, and spoke to her softly.  Aoyuma could barely hear her, but caught the end of it, Oishi’s sadness would be in not returning to you, but he would not have had any other death.  He dearly loved the sea.

But grief is a selfish beast, and Aoyuma nearly screamed her response through her teeth.  The Sea loved too much, and jealously, for She could never love him more than I.

Morumi said nothing, simply put her arms around this blessed daughter that her son had brought to her.  And when it became clear that Aoyuma would not relent, Morumi visited the midwife on the hill, who gave her a special tea.

This, on the fifth day, with Aoyuma weakened in her bereavement, Morumi was able to convince her to drink, and it brought sleep, a sleep that allowed Oniji to lift her, finally, from the sand, and carry her to her bed.  Morumi was able to bathe and change her, but could not pry Oishi’s blue kimono from her grasp.

Echigo Province, Shimazu Daimyo, 1686

Gakkōno lived quietly in her cottage by the sea.  The world outside the small village was changing, but she was not.  A widow longer than she had been a wife, she still observed her mourning, unwilling to disappoint her husband’s memory.

She was up early, before the sun broke over great Kurohime, sweeping out the schoolhouse.  Her pupils knew her as a kind, fair teacher, knew she cared about their learning, but found her ever-serious.  She rarely smiled, though they felt her affection, and never did they hear her laugh.

She closed up in the afternoons, turning back to town, sometimes visiting the market for provisions for her dinner.  She disdained the shrine on the hill and had abandoned prayer, as she privately believed the gods had abandoned her.

Darkness found her alone in her cottage, although she did still take occasional meals with her adoptive parents, and attend to their aging wants.  She was dutiful, knowing that they had suffered and shared in her loss.

She had never stopped burning a vigil candle in the window, knowing the light could be seen far out to sea.  Her silent message, her homage to Oishi.  She had never given it a second thought, never assumed it would draw any untoward attention.  Until the fateful night it did.

Soldiers from the local daimyo, drunk, incompletely civilized and led by the example of a captain entirely unrepentant.  A man of dark and dangerous appetites.

Gakkōno’s vigil was the only light burning when they were turned out of the izakaya.  Rather than ride on to the next village, where they had an encampment, they decided to interpret the widow’s expression of grief as an invitation.

They were prepared for her resistance, despite the fact that feudal law stipulated that the daimyo’s men could request to be housed in the home of any citizen able to accommodate them.  They were disinclined to make requests, and courtesy was an unfamiliar, indeed unnecessary, skill in their profession.  It was the price the people paid for protection, and if it occasionally ran higher than expected, what then?

The cost to the attractive widow, they felt, was their due.

These brutal attentions were so opposite what she had received from her beloved Oishi. If he had built for her a house of love, these men pulled it down, stripped it of its dignity, set it afire. If her husband had made her whole, they dismantled her, piece by piece, until she felt less than nothing. She knew that even if she were missed, none of the townspeople would challenge these men. At least that is what she hoped, that no one would come for her and share an even worse fate.

The brutal captain the worst, a sadist, who spoke pretty words to her as he did ugly things, started to carve his hatred into her skin, talk about what he would take next, and it did not end until his