Page 22

Chapter 22

Yoshi

E xcerpt from Celestial Echoes: The Divine Seasons by Yoshimura Takao, Chronicler of the Imperial Court, Year of the Jade Serpent:

As golden warmth yields to silver frost,The goddess rests, never truly lost.With laughter, lantern, and crimson art,We hold her sun within each heart.

In a distant age, when the world was young, Amaterasu grieved, for the land now guarded by Anzu Han was shrouded in frost and sorrow. Winter’s wrath descended with a cruelty yet unseen. Fields grew barren, while rivers froze solid as stone.

The people, bereft of warmth, lit fires and prayed for their goddess’s mercy.

Moved by their devotion, Amaterasu stretched out her arms across the sky, pouring her light with such compassion that ice cracked, earth softened, and rivers flowed anew.

The Festival of the Setting Sun celebrates our goddess’s love and compassion. It is also a time to raise up the others, her brother and sister kami , who also stand vigil over our realm.

Tsukuyomi, the moon god, governs the night.

Susanoo, her tempestuous brother whose temper often clashes with Amaterasu’s patient, steady warmth, commands the storms and sea.

Even Inari, the god of rice and prosperity, plays a role. As the growing season peaks, Amaterasu is said to pass her warmth to Inari, ensuring the rice’s growth. When the last grain is harvested, Inari presents the bounty to Amaterasu in a ritual held high in the celestial fields. The rustling of stalks, according to legend, is the goddess’s laughter as she accepts the gift and prepares for her slumber.

The divine origin of the festival reminds the Anzu not only of their goddess’s power but also of the delicate balance between and among the gods. Amaterasu’s rest, therefore, is seen not as abandonment but as a necessary pause so that divine forces may realign.

Yet even a goddess knows fatigue.

Ancient tales speak of a time when the final rice stalk had turned to gold, and the fish had fattened. Amaterasu grew weary and wished for rest. Her warmth waned, and frost touched the land once more. Sensing her exhaustion, the people of Anzu held a grand feast, adorning their village with lanterns of crimson and amber.

The festival’s oldest scrolls describe the first observance, as villagers gathered at Ashina Shrine, carrying bundles of rice and baskets of fish as offerings. They sang songs to honor her labor and wished her a season of serene slumber. They crafted lanterns from hollowed gourds and painted them with golden rays to mimic the sun’s light. As their voices rose in the “Hymn of Gentle Dreams,” a warm breeze stirred the lantern flames despite the cold.

The High Priestess declared it a sign of the goddess’s gratitude.

From that night, it is said, Amaterasu smiles upon the Anzu province, granting mild winters and bountiful springs to those who honor her rest.

I dodged puddles as I raced toward the staccato sounds of drumbeats and whistles of the flute-like sangen . Dozens of Samurai had already entered town, each wearing their most fearsome, brightly painted armor. Horns and wings sprang from helms and towered above the crowd. Drably dressed commoners, fishermen and farmers, cooks and washerwomen, farriers and blacksmiths, each wearing crimson streamers or holding crimson lanterns, crowded either side of the road and offered respectful bows as the martial masters passed. Samurai, even those under Father’s watchful eye, were known for short tempers and swift swords when their lessers failed to show proper deference.

“Hurry up,” I yelled, looking back over my shoulder. “The others are almost here.”

Kaneko dodged another puddle and hurried after me, his black hair billowing like the sails of his father’s fishing boat.

A vendor selling sponge cakes yelled out, “Yoshi- san ! Come! Your father loves these.”

I snatched a cake and waved back at the man but kept running as I tossed it into my mouth. The thick dumpling exploded, and tangy sauce dribbled down my chin.

The drumbeats grew faster as the jangling of bells added to the cheerful music.

The crowd’s cheers swelled.

I skidded to a stop just beyond my father’s protective ring. Kaneko blundered into me, and we both flew through a gap, flopping like fish tossed onto the ground at his feet. Uncle Takeo peered down, his arms crossed and muscles bulging. The scales of his ceremonial armor gleamed in the light of surrounding lamps. On his shoulders was painted the symbol of Anzu Han , a red sun broken by three spinning sickles. The crown of his golden kabuto was ornamented with a full moon above an upturned sliver of a quarter moon. I grew up thinking the sliver was a smile rather than fearsome horns, a thought that at once amused Father and annoyed my usually affable uncle.

Takeo’s eyes drifted over us, splayed before him, and an amused quirk twisted the corners of his mouth.

“Young prince, you are late.” His voice boomed, turning heads nearby. “And filthy.”

I looked down to find my white trousers coated in mud and clinging desperately to my legs. Behind me, Kaneko scrunched his nose and motioned for me to wipe my face.

“Leave the boy be, Takeo. When you were his age, you showed up late most days—and smelling far worse.” Father cast an amused glance at me and sniffed the air with a wrinkled nose. A maroon cape was draped across his broad back. Unlike the Samurai surrounding him, the only armor he wore was his shingled breastplate, which he sported more for show than to protect his chest and abdomen. The hilt of the Anzu Han ’s katana rose from the thick black sash wrapped around his waist.

Uncle grunted and bowed slightly. “As the mighty Daimyo says.”

“I believe that is the first time since birth you have addressed me properly, brother. After thirty years of your irreverent mouth, I had almost given up hope.”

Takeo rolled his eyes but held his tongue.

A servant appeared and began fussing over my soiled clothing.

For my part, I stood, chin high, and allowed the woman to do her best. She stepped back and examined me, shook her head while tsking at my foolishness and her inability to remove several dark stains, then vanished to wherever she’d been hiding before she’d magically appeared within the ring of armored men.

Kaneko’s fingers gripped my arm. “Look! They’re coming.”

He pointed toward the main road that led into the town’s square. With a permissive nod from Father, Kaneko dragged me to the center of the square where a statue of Amaterasu loomed. The goddess was bathed in golden light, her hands clasped reverently before her. Someone had hung a paper lantern from her praying palms and crowned her with a ring of brightly colored flowers. Given the season, I was fairly certain they’d come from Ashina Shrine, as the priests’ magic was the only force in the Empire that could forestall winter’s touch.

Ignoring the goddess, we climbed onto the base of the statue, allowing us to peer above heads—and horns—of the Samurai. Kaneko practically vibrated with excitement as the music grew louder.

In the blink of an eye, we were transformed from newly minted adults to preteen boys, thrilled with the sights and sounds of an annual celebration. Having Kaneko by my side made the joy of the festival strum through me like the notes of the players. His smile, the way his eyes brightened when he looked my way, everything about him laughing and joking—and simply being with me—made the day that much better.

In a flash, we were children again, and I couldn’t wipe the goofy grin from my lips.

“I didn’t see that takoyaki stand,” I said, pointing across the crowded road. “And look, they’re frying soba over there, and those noodles . . .” I pointed toward a vendor frying pancakes stuffed with octopus and another whose sizzling noodles filled the air with sensuous steam.

Kaneko shoved me playfully, and one of my feet nearly slipped off our perch. “All you ever think about is food.”

“I can’t help that I’m a growing boy. You should show me a little more respect.”

With his utmost deference, Kaneko shoved me completely off the statue’s base. “Respect that. When you can beat me with that useless stick you carry around, I might give you a quarter bow.”

“Hey!” I climbed back up beside him. “My bokken isn’t a stick. I’ll earn my katana soon, and you’ll have to bow or face my blade.”

“You’d have to be able to hit me first.” Kaneko snorted.

Lost for words, I bumped Kaneko’s shoulder to dislodge him as he’d done to me. He barely budged. That earned a smirk and a wink.

The clatter of cymbals punctuating the music drew our attention back to the road. Musicians shifted from joyful tones to the melody of loss and reflection. The front of the procession came into view as performers rounded the bend and headed toward the square. Two men in black pantaloons and white kimonos danced before a massive palanquin. Several young boys and girls in bright-orange costumes and golden crowns clanged hand cymbals as they stomped across the street, their faces in a comical imitation of a Samurai’s serious visage, heralding Divinity’s arrival and seeking his blessing.

“There’s the Shinkō-Retsu ,” Kaneko said, pointing with an open palm to the portable shrine. A dozen Shinto priests struggled under the weight of the massive wooden bier. Tiny golden bells that hung below smiling wooden arches jingled as the structure swayed.

“I wonder if they brought Emperor Senti’s spirit this time,” Kaneko whispered.

“Who cares? He’s been dead for more years than we’ve been alive.”

Kaneko’s head snapped toward me with widened eyes. “Show respect for the spirits, Yosh, especially that of the Emperor.”

That sounded rich, coming from a man I knew didn’t believe in gods or spirits.

I wasn’t sure I believed in whatever the latest monk or priest was peddling, but I also didn’t want to start that argument up again, not on a festival night, so I held my tongue and stared at the parade.

Another sudden change in the music saved me, shifting from the melancholy of the Shrine’s dirge to an upbeat, playful tune that had us both bouncing on the balls of our feet. Four rows of women with white-painted faces and ruby lips danced into view. They wore traditional pink kimonos with tall wicker hats shaped like dumplings. They clapped as one, then clomped as one. Their heads reared back, then lunged forward. When their tight triangular formation spread to the edge of the road, every line and step was measured to perfection.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

Kaneko cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve seen Samurai practice their kata a thousand times, but they’re never in time like those dancers.”

“Speaking of Samurai . . .”

I practically leaped off the statue’s base, craning my neck to see what came next. The crowd bowed in what began as a ripple and grew into a wave. Dozens of warriors in polished armor advanced with katana flying in one hand and shorter blades flashing in the other. Light from torches and lamps danced off each blade, creating a spectacle of swordsmanship and nighttime brilliance.

Two women, members of the all-female Onna-bugeisha , stood out among the band. Their crisp cuts cleaved the night with precision and grace. Even those gathered around the Daimyo turned and cheered their martial brothers and sisters.

“One day . . .” Kaneko muttered to himself.

“One day what?” I asked.

He startled and waved me off. “Nothing. I was just admiring the Samurai.”

Buddhist monks, not to be outdone by the portable shrine of their Shinto counterparts, marched in orderly ranks. They wore drab brown robes with flowing red-and-gold sashes. Balls of fire and ice danced above their upturned palms. The martial prowess and magic of the Buddhist monks were both a mystery and fascination throughout the Empire, but seeing them wield their magics in person was far more impressive than reading about it in scrolls.

Finally came the boring ones, the political class: leaders and representatives of the various tribes, members of local town councils, and other dignitaries, all of whom had answered Father’s call for a council, no doubt to debate the Emperor’s demand for arms. I recognized a few of the men and women from across the island, but many others I couldn’t name, especially those who had traveled from afar. Every one of our province’s major han was represented.

The music shifted yet again, transforming into a soothing, majestic undulation of the Emperor’s theme. One lone man in a shimmering silver kimono trimmed in gold strolled down the center of the street. His black headdress was covered in golden script, marking him an officer of the Imperial court. While an Imperial representative was expected, the scroll bearing the seal of the Emperor in his outstretched hands was not.

The crowd hushed and bowed as he passed.

Even the vendors ceased their ministrations to offer respect.

“That can’t be good,” I muttered.

“Shh. Someone will hear you. Being the Daimyo ’s son won’t save you from an angry court official,” Kaneko whispered. Then, after a moment’s thought, he asked, “What can’t be good? What are you talking about?”

“The scroll. That has to be the Emperor trying to drag us into his war or demanding higher taxes.”

“Well, he is the Emperor. I’ve never understood why we aren’t already fighting by his side.”

I gripped Kaneko’s arm, turning him away from the festival. “Now you keep your voice low. All my father wants is for our people to live in peace. Mainland squabbles have nothing to do with us.”

“Nothing to—” He bit his tongue. “Mark my words, we’ll either join that fight on our terms, or someone will drag us into it. Your father can’t hide on his island forever.”

“Hide?” My blood boiled at Kaneko hinting at cowardice, only stilling when the messenger reached Father’s dais.

A thousand eyes snapped toward the man with the scroll.

Anzu Hiroki Daimyo bowed low, and everyone followed suit, leaving the Emperor’s man standing alone. When they rose, the representative offered a middling bow in return.

“Anzu Hiroki- sama Daimyo , the Son of Heaven sends his warmest greetings. His Heavenly Light congratulates you on your service as lord of these lands and peoples. In his infinite wisdom, Heaven’s Keeper offers his thanks for your many years of service . . . and loyalty .” The last word was spoken through clenched teeth—but it was spoken.

Father stepped forward and bowed to the representative again. “Anzu Han offers our respect and gratitude to the Hand of Heaven, and wishes him a long and healthy reign.”

He stepped back into place without turning away or dropping his eyes. This was a dance as martial as any Samurai might endure, but one played out on a far more treacherous field. The crowd muttered their approval at the exchange, then hushed as the silver-robed man dropped to both knees and held the scroll aloft, calling out in a clear staccato.

“These are the divine words of Akira Takashi- heika Tennō , Son of Heaven, Voice of the Gods, and Great Lord of the Mugen Empire. Receive them and heed his wisdom.”

Father stepped forward again and gripped the scroll in two hands, bowing lower than he had before. He tried to step back, but the Emperor’s messenger clung to his missive.

The tingle of magic pimpled my arms, despite our distance from the dais.

Music ceased.

The clatter of hooves stilled.

Even the song of the wind quieted, as all of Anzu province awaited the Son of Heaven’s words.

From the depths of his bow, the messenger spoke, his voice strained but somehow magnified for all to hear, “Hiroki- sama , the Emperor calls on your kinship. His dragon may not be enough this time—and you know what would happen should the Emperor’s line fail.”

Gasps rose from the crowd.

The Emperor was divine. He was infallible. He was the chosen of the gods.

The Emperor’s line could not fail.

As the emissary released the scroll, the spell vanished, leaving those witnessing the display with eyes wide and mouths agape.

The moment Father stepped back, the snaps and booms of fireworks filled the air. Cries of surprise and squeals of delight could be heard from children throughout. Eyes turned toward the heavens—everyone’s except Father’s and the gilded messenger’s. They were locked as if bound by some mystical force.

Father tried to turn away but remained transfixed.

The messenger whispered something only the Daimyo could hear; then, suddenly, Father stumbled backward, freed from the magical grip.

His eyes grew wide as brilliant red bloomed across the messenger’s tunic.

Flanked by Samurai, Father raced forward.

The emissary crumpled to the cobbles, an arrow fletched in white protruding from his back. With the sounds of the festival resumed, the missile’s flight had gone unheard.

Father’s guards fanned out, their eyes darting from the fireworks to the villagers to those in the parade. Horror filled their gazes as their lord’s head bowed. A heartbeat later, the ring of steel filled the air as katana sang with readiness. Cries of alarm spread throughout the crowd as more recognized the Imperial messenger had been shot.

Kaneko and I had been transfixed by the lights in the sky but were now unmoving as we watched the scene unfold. When Father rose with the injured man cradled in his arms, we leaped down and raced to them.

Kaneko and I pressed ourselves into the corner and watched as Mother and a Shinto priest attended to the messenger.

“Out, all of you. Let the priest do work,” Mother commanded, shooing broad-shouldered Samurai as if they were children. The proud men would normally bristle at such disrespect, but Kita was the Daimyo ’s wife and a surrogate mother to many of the warriors. They revered her nearly as much as they did their master’s blade.

The messenger lay on a pallet in the center of the room. White paper walls framed with black-painted wood shielded him from view but did little to dampen the clamor beyond.

Before the last of the men who’d carried him had vanished, the priest was already on his knees beside the man, peeling back his blood-soaked kimono . He turned to Mother, his brows furrowed. “I need hot water, fresh linen, and as many of my brother-priests as you can find—and bring me some sake , for the gods’ sake!”

I slid the paper door open just in time for Mother to fly through without so much as a sideways glance. Kaneko slid it closed as one of the more impatient Samurai craned his neck for a better view.

The priest glared at the gash in the man’s chest and muttered to himself.

Then his head raised toward the ceiling as he prayed, “Mother Amaterasu, Lady of Light, hear this unworthy one’s prayer. Guide my hand and strengthen my spirit. Kannon, goddess of mercy, show compassion this day. Stay the hand of Shinigami—”

I gasped at the invocation of the god of death.

No one used his name.

Ever.

To do so was said to invite him into the mortal plane—

Lanterns began to flicker, and a black mist, darker than the deepest night, formed and swirled above the messenger. It did not appear as the dimming of a flame, rather the absence of light itself.

A face framed in wild, wind-strewn hair with even wilder silver eyes and a maniacal grin resolved within the mist.

Death himself had come.

“How dare you stand between Death and his due!” The spirit’s voice boomed, rattling the paper walls of the chamber as though a mighty wind whipped about.

The priest raised his palms, and they began to glow. He chanted, at first a mumble but quickly growing to shouted words, as he brought them before his chest.

The glow of his palms flared to brilliance, but Death was unmoved.

The priest strained, as if fighting to contain the light between his palms. So bright was the light that I had to turn away, only peeking back through shielded eyes.

Ignoring the angry apparition, the priest opened his hands and pressed them to either side of the messenger’s wound. The light poured into him, but so, too, did darkness. Angered by the healing magic and the priest’s insipid prayers, the spirit of death entwined himself around every tendril of light, dampening its presence, silencing its power.

The messenger’s body shuddered and heaved.

The priest wailed and thrust more of himself into his spell.

The light pulsed dully before stilling to nothing.

A shroud of blackness enveloped the messenger as the god’s spirit clutched his prize. Then a tendril of the angry spirit’s blackness stabbed out and seared the priest’s eyes. The helpless man screamed as his hands flew to his face.

The god hurled his limp form across the room.

Kaneko gasped as the messenger’s spirit rose from his body and black mist devoured it, leaving no trace of the man’s ethereal essence. With one last flare, Shinigami, god of death, cackled and vanished, leaving behind the empty shell of the dead messenger, a blinded priest, and two stunned young men.