Page 32 of Water Moon

Chapter Thirty-two

The Valley of Stars

Blue slushies, as it turned out, had a purpose other than giving you a brain freeze. Keishin watched Hana pour one out over the floor. He jumped and sank into the blue puddle, pleasantly surprised that he didn’t feel cold.

The trip was quick, over before Keishin could even begin trying to understand what it meant to travel to a star. Foxes made of sand and living scrolls had forced him to redefine what “fantastic” meant, and a star, he was certain, was going to test the new definition’s limits. It was therefore quite understandable that Keishin had a difficult time hiding his disappointment when he reached their destination.

“This is not what you expected,” Hana said, surveying a small village at the bottom of a gently sloping hill.

“I think that I must have misheard you. I thought you said we were going to a star.”

Hana smiled. “You heard correctly. But we will not be seeing one star. We will be seeing many. That village has one responsibility. Each night, it creates the sky.”

—

The energy throughout the village’s cobbled streets buzzed in the air and tingled against Keishin’s skin. No matter where you looked, you could not find a single person standing still. Everyone, including the smallest child, had a task. Baskets flowed in an endless stream down both sides of the street, ferried on backs and shoulders. Small groups hunched over worktables cutting washi paper or splitting bamboo into thin spars, barely pausing to speak or look up from their work. The children were charged with carrying around trays of food and drink. A little girl with chubby hands stopped and offered Keishin and Hana savory rice crackers.

“Thank you,” Keishin said, taking a round, golden-brown cracker from her.

She bowed and smiled in a way that puffed up her cheeks. She carried her tray down the street, searching for the next person to share her crackers with.

“Every person in this town is working toward the singular goal of getting the night sky ready. Some prepare the stars. Some clean. Some make sure the others do not go thirsty or hungry while working. At the end of the day, they put up the sky and go to bed. The next morning, they do everything all over again.”

“I think that out of everything I have seen and heard since stepping into your world, what you just told me makes the least sense. What do you mean they’re getting the night sky ready? How do you prepare the stars?”

“It is better if you see it for yourself,” Hana said. “Come.”

—

They stopped at the end of the street across from a two-story wooden house. A cart, being unloaded by two men, was parked in front of it. The men handed baskets of small, silk-wrapped packages to two women who carried the baskets inside the house.

“This is where the whole process begins,” Hana said. “Think of this entire village as a workshop. Each street is assigned a specific task, and each house along that street is responsible for fulfilling the various elements of that task. This house is in charge of collecting and sorting hope.”

“Hope?” Keishin arched a brow.

“Even in a world like ours, where our entire life is mapped out for us, we still need to hope, or at least have the illusion of it. On our birthdays, we are allowed to send our hopes to this village. We write them down a few weeks before our birthday and send them here. It is the village’s duty to send them up to the sky,” Hana said. “That is what those baskets contain. Hope. Every household on this street is charged with collecting and sorting them.

“But not all hopes are the same. Some require more work than others. The homes that are in charge of preparing the hopes people have about love have the most difficult duty.”

—

Keishin and Hana were warmly welcomed into a home along the next street as though they were longtime friends of the family. Suzuki Fumiko, a stooped elderly woman who had a harder time seeing than chattering away, led them to a room where a small group of people were gathered around a table, painting on thin sheets of paper.

“It is not often that we have visitors come to our village.” Fumiko squinted at Keishin. “I am always happy to see the faces of those who send their hopes here.”

“Thank you for allowing us to see your work, Suzuki-san,” Hana said.

“It is my children who paint now. My eyes gave up on me before my mind and hands did. But oh, what beauty I used to paint. Everyone said that my work was the prettiest in the village. Even better than my sister’s. Faces were my specialty. Lips. Eyes. Noses. I painted all of them with the greatest care,” she said, barely taking a breath. “Oh. I apologize,” she said with a chuckle. “Here I go again. It is an old woman’s vice to ramble and take advantage of people who are too polite to tell her to be quiet.”

Keishin smiled, finding her chattering soothing. It gave him something to think about other than being chased by the Shiikuin. It also made the day with Hana feel like one wherein they were simply two tourists with nothing on their minds except wondering where they were going to have lunch and buy souvenirs. In a way, it was like a date—their second, if he counted the imaginary one they had while riding his song. It even came with all the tiny bubbles that fizzed and popped in your stomach as you stood next to each other, hands close enough to touch. “We are happy to listen to whatever you wish to tell us.”

Fumiko beamed. “I like you. You remind me of my father. He stopped whatever he was doing, no matter how busy he was, to listen to my stories about insects I had found or a rock that I thought was pretty. He made me feel that they were the most interesting things in the world. His face and the other old treasures I keep in here are the only things I see clearly now.” She tapped the side of her head with a crooked finger. “But I do not have any cause to complain. My family has had the privilege of painting every hope our world has ever had about love. They say that hopes about children are the most colorful, hopes about health the brightest, hopes about happiness the prettiest, and hopes about love the most difficult to paint. And they are right. It is very challenging to capture all the shades love has with pigment. But we do our best, and I have enough memories of all the hope I have painted in my lifetime to fill the largest museum. There is nothing more I need to see. I trust my children to carry on our family’s duty.” She pointed to the farthest side of the table. “Mikio is my eldest son and a gifted illustrator.”

A slightly built man with a sparse head of hair glanced up from a hexagonal sheet of washi paper and greeted Keishin and Hana with a polite smile. He returned to his work, painting over the sheet with black ink, using a combination of thick and thin brushstrokes. The image on the paper was less than half done, but Keishin was able to make out the features of a striking face.

“And that is Emiko.” Fumiko gestured to a woman with a face that reminded Keishin of a peach. “She brings Mikio’s drawings to life.”

Emiko looked up from her corner of the table and nodded shyly. She dipped her brush into a small clay pot, tapped it lightly on the pot’s rim, and colored in the delicate blush on a woman’s face. From where he stood, Keishin could almost feel the warmth radiating from the painted cheek.

“Will you be staying to see the stars tonight?” Fumiko said. “It will be quite a sight. I have lived in this village all my life, and yet every night feels new.”

“We do not know what our plans are yet,” Hana said. “But thank you for sharing your work with us. Everything is so beautiful.”

“Every hope deserves to sparkle in the sky.” Fumiko smiled, deepening the lines around her eyes. She patted Hana’s hand. “Even for just one night.”

—

A question was wedged between Keishin’s brows when they left Fumiko’s home. “Were the paintings they were making supposed to be stars?”

“They will be. They are not finished yet. Once they dry, they will be sent to those houses over there.” Hana pointed to an intersecting street. “Those families are responsible for attaching the painted washi to a bamboo frame. The households across from them are in charge of inserting the string and bending the bamboo to make sure that everything is firmly stuck together.”

Keishin narrowed his eyes, imagining the assembly. “They’re making kites?”

“One kite for every hope that is sent to the village. Tonight, they will float in the sky as stars. This is the one place that the Shiikuin are forbidden to go, a place where we can pretend that we are free.”

“So that’s why Haruto told us to meet him here,” Keishin said. “Because the Shiikuin can’t follow us.”

“That, and because the person he trusts most in this world lives in this village.”

“Who?”

A tall woman with white-blond hair whose face bore a striking resemblance to Haruto’s walked up behind Hana. “His mother.”

Hana twisted around and bowed to her. “Masuda-san.”

“Hana,” Masuda Masako said without smiling.

“Is Haruto here?”

Masako raised her hand, silencing her.

Hana nodded, glancing around to check if anyone had overheard them.

Masako narrowed her eyes at Keishin. “ Outsider, ” she hissed beneath her breath.

Masako said the word so sharply that it sliced through the air and nicked Keishin’s left cheek. Keishin flinched. The word was all too familiar. It was how he felt about himself no matter where he was. It may as well have been his name.

“Keishin is a friend, Masuda-san,” Hana said, looking her directly in the eye.

“You have no idea what kind of danger you have put all of us in, Hana.”

“I know. I am truly sorry. We will leave as soon as—”

“As soon as,” Masako cut Hana off, her face dark, “you see what they have done to my son. Because of you.”

—

Masako’s home sat in the shade of a large tree. Gampi bushes, mitsumata shrubs, and kozo bushes grew as they pleased over its front garden, nearly covering the path to the house.

“Take care not to step on them.” Masako stepped over one of the overgrown shrubs. “I need them to make my paper.”

“We saw the washi you made in the village,” Hana said quietly. “They were very beautiful.”

“It keeps me busy. It is what sensible people do when they retire. They do sensible things. They do not chase after ghosts and put the people around them in danger.” She stopped and faced Hana. “This is all your father’s fault. Why couldn’t he have left the past alone? I don’t care what my family owes him. He has gone too far and asked too much of Haruto, of everyone. The Shiikuin would not have…” She clenched her fists at her sides, tears in her eyes. She looked away to hide them. “Come. Haruto is waiting for you inside.”

—

Masako led them through sliding doors to a room at the back of her home. A lean figure lay on a futon in the corner, his body facing the wall, his long white-blond hair disheveled.

“Haruto?” Masako said quietly.

Haruto stirred.

“They’re here,” Masako said. “I will wait outside while you talk.” She stepped out of the room, sliding the paper doors shut behind her.

Haruto slowly pushed himself up from the futon, letting out a small groan as he did.

“Are you all right?” Hana hurried to him. “What happened?”

Haruto turned toward her, his face damp with cold sweat. His hair lay plastered over his forehead and the sides of his cheeks. “I’m fine,” he said, forcing a smile that betrayed his pain.

Hana reached out to brush the hair from his face.

“Don’t.” Haruto’s arm flew up to block her. A bloodied bandage covered his hand from fingertips to wrist.

Hana’s eyes filled with horror. “No…”

Keishin gaped at Haruto’s hands. Both were wrapped in bandages stained with blood. “Did the Shiikuin do this?” he said, his throat closing around his words.

“Someone told them that they had seen you and Hana at the museum. The Shiikuin came to my house and questioned me. They demanded to know why the two of you came to see me and where you were. When I refused to answer them…”

“They could have killed you.” Hana choked on her tears.

“No, they could not,” Haruto said. “My mother is too old to do my work, and I do not yet have any sons or daughters to pass on my trade. No one else can do my duty.”

Hana cradled his hands. “And so they did worse.”

“I wanted them to. It was the only way.”

“What are you talking about? It was the only way to do what?”

“If the Shiikuin did not hurt me, if they did not do something terrible to force me to talk, they would not have believed the lie I told them.”

“What lie?” Hana said.

“That you believed your father had found a way to cross over safely into the other world, and that you were trying to find a way to follow him. I told them that you were looking for something from the museum exhibits that could help you cross. I confessed that I had assisted you by taking some of the hours from the exhibit and giving them to you so that you would have more time to search for your father before fading away. I told them that I had sent you to the Lotus Lake to collect the materials I needed to make the paper to hold the hours.”

“And they believed you?” Keishin said.

“After they broke my second hand and I repeated the same story, they did.”

Hana wept. “You did not have to do this, Haruto.”

“My hands will heal. Besides, if I had told them the truth, then all the trouble I had gone through to retrieve the bones would have been for nothing.”

“You…mean…” Hana’s voice quivered.

“I did it. It worked. I folded time. But…”

“But what?” Keishin said.

“I cannot give it to you.”

“Why not?” Keishin asked.

“Because I had to swallow it to hide it from the Shiikuin.”

“I…I understand. That was the right thing to do,” Hana said.

“I cannot give it to you,” Haruto said. “But I can tell you everything I saw. I know that it was not my place to look, but after I had folded time, I could not stop myself. I am sorry.”

“Thank you.” Hana threw her arms around him. “Thank you.”

“But Hana…” Haruto said.

“Yes?”

“The story I will tell you will not be easy to hear.”