THE TALE
OF HIKARI
A
BUTTERFLY’S METAMORPHOSIS:
Whenever he drew, Takeru was transformed. His single,
clear focus on his subject was evident in every muscle of his body, every line
of his face. He wore a serious expression, although the effect was spoilt slightly
by the pink tip of his tongue sticking out of a corner of his mouth. He did not
lift a hand to brush away the strands of sunlight-warm hair that fell across
his face; it was doubtful he even noticed them. In the morning light, his eyes
were a shade darker, like the midnight sky reflected in a still and deep lake.
Like this, she could almost forget that he was a peasant. Almost. She watched him in fascination, glad for the veil that hid
the fact that her concentration was not on the art but the artist himself.
At the moment, he was sketching a little bunch of
chrysanthemums that she had gathered for him. The petals and stems took shape
beneath his quick fingers, and seemed as if they might be picked up from the
page. When the drawing was done, he painstakingly added the kanji for ‘white chrysanthemum’ next to
it, then finished it with his name. He had taken to signing his drawings
lately, ever since she had taught him how to write his name.
She sighed in envy, “I wish I could draw as well as you.”
“You’ll learn,” he handed her his brush with a smile. The
crude handle was still warm from his skin. She did not know why she should
notice that, or why it should cause her stomach to flutter inside her as it
held a thousand moths. Pushing the sensation away from her, she drew a sheet of
paper to her and dipped the brush into the little pot of ash-ink that he had
prepared, before she put it to paper.
She would bring them proper supplies tomorrow, she
decided. She had resolved to bring him her old inkstone and brushes a hundred
times, and had decided against it as many. Although these morning lessons with
Takeru had become a part of the daily routine by which she shaped a life that
threatened to be formless, she was still uneasy about them. She knew her father
would never approve of what she was doing, and she wanted to give him no reason
to be suspicious. If she were caught coming home with her painting supplies,
uncomfortable questions would be asked. Most of her eccentricities were
accepted without question, such as her excuse that she enjoyed early morning
walks, but that one might not be.
“You’re not focussed on what you’re doing,” Takeru
observed mildly from her shoulder, “And it shows.”
Her cheeks coloured as she looked properly at her painted
chrysanthemums. They were a lifeless collection of scribbles such as a child
might do. Beside his skillfully-rendered ones, they looked even worse than they
truly were. She sighed and set the brush down on the rock that served as their
table. Black liquid pooled around its tip to stain the stone, “You’re right.
I’m not.”
“Do you have a problem?” he asked, “If you need to confide
in me, I promise I won’t even tell the reeds about it.”
Hikari smiled slightly, “The reeds, Takeru?”
“You haven’t heard the story about the fox-spirit and her
human husband, Lady Yagami?”
“No. Why don’t you tell me about it?” she asked, grateful
for any distraction from her own doubts and fears.
“Another time perhaps,” he shrugged, then fixed her with
an intent look, “We were talking about your problem.”
“It’s . . . it’s these lessons. I’m beginning to wonder if
they’re such a good idea, Takeru.”
“You don’t want to continue them, Lady Yagami?” he
exclaimed, “Your painting is improving, isn’t it?”
“It’s not as simple as that,” she replied, “It’s never
that simple.”
“Why?”
“Because my life isn’t my own to live,” she said honestly,
“Because I have to marry well for my father’s sake. Because I won’t, if anyone
ever discovers what we are doing. Because . . . .” she trailed off with a sigh,
“You wouldn’t understand. You’re just a peasant; you can’t understand my life.”
“I’m just a peasant, so I can’t understand what it’s like
not to be able to make my own choices?” the question had an acid bite to it,
and she knew she had managed to offend him again. That was all she seemed to do
when they were together - he had a stiff pride that was quite at odds with his
station, “Do you honestly think I choose to work in the fields harvesting rice
for your father, Lady Yagami? Do you think I don’t want anything better for
myself, but know there’s no hope that I’ll ever get it in this province?” (1)
Torn between shame and outrage, “I . . . Takeru, I . . .
.”
He cut her off with a furious gesture, and began to clear
the table in front of them. He tipped the ink-pot into the grass, then gathered
his brushes and clean sheets of paper together. He got to his feet and gave her
a deep bow that was cutting in its politeness, “I’ve also thought about all of
this, and I think our lessons are over, Lady Yagami. After all, I don’t need to
write to work your fields, do I?”
She stood, “That’s unfair! I didn’t mean that!”
“Yes, you did,” he shook his head in disgust, “What do you
see when you look at me, Lady Yagami, if you can even see through that veil? Do
you even see me, or do you see just another peasant?”
“I see . . . .” she trailed off, biting her lip and
tasting the bitterness of safflower. What did she see when he looked at him? It
was an impossible question to answer. Most of the time, she looked at him and
saw the coarse, undyed cloth of his robes; the traces of dirt beneath his
fingernails; the gracelessness of his movements; everything that marked him a
peasant. However, there were moments when she would glance across at him and
notice none of that, because of a sudden smile, or his focus on his art earlier
that morning, or some other sweetness about him that inexplicably made her feel
as if she were walking a long and narrow bridge over a swollen river.
He took her silence for confirmation and turned to leave,
“No, I think I see. Goodbye, Lady Yagami.”
“Wait,” she exclaimed, without knowing why she did not
want him to leave, other than that her life would feel very cold and empty
without him. Her hands trembling slightly, she undid the ties that held her
veils closed and parted them. The dawn air was cool against her bare face and
smelt sweetly of fallen leaves. After their conversation the other day, she
doubted he would understand the full significance of the gesture, but she hoped
he would understand enough to forgive her.
Her heart pounded painfully in her chest as he turned back
towards her. Apart from her family and a young admirer with whom she had
exchanged childish poems and vows of eternal devotion, she had never allowed a
man to see her face before. She felt naked and exposed, yet strangely free.
A look of surprise came to his face, “I thought . . . I
thought that was too disgraceful.”
She said quietly, “I can see you now, and you can see me.”
****
Knowing what she was doing was disgraceful and that her
step-daughter would never forgive her if she caught her, Izumi slipped through
the screens that divided off Hikari’s room. As she had hoped, her bed was
empty, although wrinkles in the cushions and bed-clothes showed she had spent
the previous night there. She had already left on her usual early-morning walk,
which seemed to grow earlier with every day. That morning, the sky had still
been dark when she had heard the muffled sound of footsteps across the floor
and smelt the faint scent of Hikari’s perfume.
She was used to her step-daughter’s strange ways and
dismissed them as the restless of a woman too long unmarried, but this
behaviour was even more peculiar than usual. She was not the only one who had
noticed it too. Mimi had mentioned something to her about seeing an odd picture
of geese in Hikari’s room. When she had asked the younger woman about it, she
had slipped out of answering all her questions, other than to say it had not
been done by her father or Taichi.
That had brought back her own memories of another picture
that had struck her as strange at the time. It had been of a spray of
morning-glory and Hikari had claimed it had been done by Taichi, but Izumi had
seen her step-son’s sketches enough times to know that they were scribbles
compared to that painting. Hikari had lied to her; she had a secret to conceal.
If she could find the pictures, they might hold the key to solving this puzzle,
but where would Hikari have hidden them?
Izumi sighed, looking around the small room. Screens whose
colours betrayed them as being reused from last autumn. A wrinkled and unmade
bed. A perfumed chest that she knew contained Hikari’s cosmetics from having
helped the younger woman to apply them. A musical instrument that Hikari never
played. A low table in the corner with sheets of paper, a vase of colourful
leaves and an elaborately carved box. Her eyes paused on the last, and she
quickly crossed the room to take a look inside it.
Careful not to disturb the rest of the litter of papers on
the desk, she opened the little box and a smile of delight spread across her
face. Inside, neatly rolled to keep them in good condition, were dozens of
sheets of paper. She extracted one from the top and rolled it out on the table
to look at it. It was a lively, detailed sketch of two children running on the
beach, executed with such skill that she could almost hear their screams of
laughter and the crashing of the waves on the shore. Gulls wheeled above them
in the sky, black specks above a vast sea. She was so fascinated by the sketch
that it was some moments before she thought to check who had executed it.
In the corner, in a surprisingly clumsy and childish hand,
was written a single name: ‘Takeru.’
***
NOTES:
1. Apparently, Heian social classes weren’t that rigid. A
peasant could move up to the artisan class, if s\he had enough talent and a
noble or an artisan took an interest in him\her. S\he could never become a
noble, of course, but there was definitely some flexibility in the lower ranks.
Interestingly, the famous Hokusai started his life as a peasant, and - worse! -
one brought up by a single mother. Thanks to Keri for this information.