A Sword's Poem

by Leah Cutter

  I’d sent riders ahead of us, bearing sealed letters, so my family already knew our news. We arrived at the estate in the early evening, even though custom dictated that one never reached one’s destination until after it was fully dark, so no one could witness our exhaustion or travel–stained clothes.

  As it was just my family, I didn’t care.

  My childhood home—though really, I suppose it qualified as a small estate—sat nestled in the foothills of Yoshino Mountain. Strong gates, iron and sturdy, supported by thick rock walls protected the compound. They were diligently maintained, though really, none could find us whom we didn’t want to see. The roads were all hidden and enspelled.

  Evening had settled softly across the land, hiding the sharp rocks, giving everything a green tint, as if covered by moss. The mountain shot up sharply at the back of our property—yet another safety precaution, as we never had to worry about an attack coming from the rear. It was a land of peace, reflecting the true nature of the kitsune. We never started any war, and would slip out from a trap rather than fight whenever we could.

  My two sisters, both older than I—Etsu and Cho—greeted us at the outer gates.

  My mother, of course, had taken to her bed at the news.

  I knew she would weep for me, for Norihiko, for the rest of her day. How long would she lay all the responsibilities for the household on my sisters’ shoulders while she mourned? Had she finally found the one perfect excuse, so she could hide in her rooms forever?

  Not that I wished my mother ill. But having lived with all her humors and sick spells, perhaps I was a bit tired of them.

  No tear tracks marred my sisters’ beautiful faces, though they wore the finest black mourning silks, rich and heavy. I was glad that they’d already burned the white cotton robes that one wore over one’s clothing at the start of a mourning period: I’d dreaded living through more funeral rites, as well as having to give a new elegy.

  Etsu wore her glorious, thick black hair unbound, falling around her like dark waterfalls, as was proper during the first weeks of mourning.

  Cho, the sister closest to me in age, still had her usual butterfly pins in her hair, the ones beautifully enameled with red and green wings.

  It was the only color on the three of us, the only bright spot I’d noticed for days.

  Despite my resolutions, the sight of them made me weep.

  Etsu pulled me into her arms immediately, comforting me as was her responsibility as the eldest. She smelled of warm, dry places, lined with leaves and fur. Of all of us, she was the most comfortable in her fox form.

  Mother had told us it was because Etsu was the eldest, that someday, we’d all feel the same way.

  I wasn’t sure I believed Mother. Was Etsu’s ease instead due to the man who’d fathered her? He’d been a human sorcerer, who’d specialized in changing shapes.

  When I finished my tears, we walked hand–in–hand to my rooms, along the darkened corridors of the main building. All the lights had been masked with yellow silk, making the spaces seem even more enclosed.

  In my rooms, the tatamis had already been aired out and laid on the floor, with a scattering of red, green, and yellow silk–covered pillows. Only a few of the lanterns had been lit, keeping the corners dark, hiding mysteries and shadows. The windows overlooking the formal gardens were shuttered, with bright red ribbons holding them shut against any ill spirits.

  Servants brought us tea, then withdrew. I knew they were waiting just outside the door, listening closely for any tidbit they could use in their gossip.

  I didn’t know what to say to my sisters. These rooms, where I’d spent so many years, were foreign to me, now. Echoes of the laughter I’d shared with Norihiko stirred restlessly in the corners.

  My sisters respected my silence, or at least, tried to. Cho didn’t know how to be still, though. Soon, she was chatting away about the spring, the way the leaves were budding, the latest volume of poetry she’d read, how the robins proclaimed that the summer was to be short but hot.

  I didn’t interrupt her, and I didn’t let Etsu shush her, either. It amazed me, how I no longer felt as though I was the youngest amongst us.

  Had I ever been as light and silly as Cho?

  Of course I had been. Until the past week, I’d been even more flighty.

  Now, the weight of my responsibilities lay heavily on my shoulders.

  Eventually, Cho’s rambling began to irritate me. I wanted to be alone again.

  I’d never been a solitary creature, but now, my soul seemed to relax only when I was by myself. I couldn’t explain my desires to my sisters. They wouldn’t have understood. I barely understood it myself. The kitsune were social by nature.

  I started yawning, a polite way of letting my sisters know it was time for them to be on their way. I didn’t have to feign my exhaustion, though I knew I wouldn’t sleep: too many ghosts lingered in these rooms. Memories of Norihiko and our poetry contests, impassioned letters I’d agonized over, whispered confidences as we both grew bold.

  After Etsu shooed my other sister out of my room, she paused at the door, then turned back and said, “You won’t have to go through this alone. We’ll be there with you, as long as we can be.”

  I shivered as much at her words as her deliberate phrasing. Etsu had a touch of my mother’s gift. What had she seen? What trials would my sisters go through with me?

  What would my revenge cost them?

  Ξ

  With Yukiko’s help, I managed to put off my sisters and spend the morning alone. I didn’t have the energy to get off my sleeping tatami until quite late, well after the sun had risen and the chores of the day had begun. I spent time sitting on the small porch off my main room, watching the garden and the trees just beyond.

  I couldn’t see the mountain from my windows, a lack I’d never felt before. The budding greenery below was too transient, too fragile. It reminded me, the immortal, of the impermanence of life.

  If Norihiko had still lived, I would have composed sad poems for him. Because he was my true love, he would have responded in kiind, knowing better than to try to cheer me up.

  Even though it was still spring, the afternoon dragged on, the air hot and breathless. I decided to sleep my way through the worst of it, not just because that meant I could put off my sisters for a while longer.

  I dreamed I was being snugly held, encased in safe darkness. It wasn’t clear if Norihiko had come back to me—but I’d only felt such peace in his arms.

  Then everything began to tremble and shake, as the land does when Nai no Kami starts his dance to bring the mountain down.

  I awoke, shivering and sweating, chills racing down my spine.

  Yukiko knelt beside me, her hand still resting on my shoulder. Evidently, she’d been shaking me awake.

  “Your mother has summoned you,” Yukiko said bleakly.

  There could only be one reason why: She must have had a vision. One that involved me.

  “Has she called for any of my sisters?” I asked as I pushed myself to sitting.

  “She has not,” Yukiko said. “Just you.”

  I prepared myself as best I could, taking the time to straighten my black–silk mourning robes, comb out my hair, and apply some color to my face.

  My mother was certain to be hysterical and I needed to be as calm as possible. Preparing my face and my clothes would help give me confidence.

  I also wanted to show her that I wasn’t her baby girl anymore. I needed for her to tell me everything she’d seen, not just what she deemed appropriate for me, as she had in the past.

  Low moaning echoed through the hall as I approached, filling me with dread. I paused outside my mother’s door, taking deep breaths and calming myself, before I pushed open the shoji and entered.

  It was worse than the time she’d seen flood destroying the nearby farms and the ensuing famine.

  Not only had my mother not dressed or fixed her hair, she hadn’t bothered to get up from her sleeping mat.
The wooden pillow block still lay to one side, discarded like a child’s toy. None of the windows were open and the air smelled sour, like a sickroom. No lamps brightened the tiny square space—it was as gloomy as a tomb.

  Mother sat on her mats, crying and weeping, moaning and wringing her hands. She muttered quietly, “Norihiko, poor, poor, Norihiko,” over and over again.

  I held back my sigh of exasperation. Why was she allowed such extreme grief when it had been my husband who had been killed? Yet I contained myself and my mourning?

  I still went to my mother, held her, rocked her back and forth and stroked her hair, as if she were the child and I the adult. I’d done this many time before when she’d had a vision.

  Something was wrong, though. Mother was much more upset than usual. She cried fitfully, stopping and starting, her forehead pressed hard against my shoulder. She smelled bitter, as though she’d taken a vinegar bath.

  Through her tears and increasingly loud moans, I made out a few more words: “Fire,” “Pain,” and “Splintered.”

  What had she seen? Was it more than Norihiko’s death? Was the estate about to be burned down? Was our family to be sundered? Oh that she would just control herself! Cease her weeping and carrying on!

  I waited, not very patiently, for her to calm down and tell me what she’d seen.

  Except, she never did. She would stop crying for a while, only to start back up again. Her moans cycled up and down in volume.

  My back started to ache from holding my mother for so long. I wanted to signal one of the servants, have them bring me some tea, but they’d all withdrawn beyond the shoji.

  Possibly they’d done this out of courtesy, but I knew better. They were lazy and knew that I’d be calling on them to fetch things for my mother. They’d all lived through many of my mother’s hysteric spells, when nothing would satisfy her or end her grief.

  When my mother’s moans had quieted enough that I could be heard, I called out for Yukiko. She came immediately. At least she was well trained.

  “Please fetch Etsu,” I told her. It was appropriate for the eldest to come and take care of my mother, at least for a while. Until she could calm herself enough to tell me what she’d seen.

  That seemed to draw Mother out of her fit, at least for a while.

  “Do. Fetch Etsu,” she said, gasping through her tears.

  “Right away,” Yukiko assured me with a nod.

  I knew Yukiko would also come back with refreshments. I was going to have to reward her loyalty, soon. Not a new outfit, not while we were both in mourning. Maybe a new comb for her hair, though.

  “Mother, what did you see?” I asked. The question was selfish. I should have asked what I could get for her, how to help her pain. But I had to know. She wouldn’t have called for me if her vision hadn’t been about me. And she’d already mentioned Norihiko.

  Mother grasped my forearms, tightening her grip until I winced with pain. Her skin took on an eerie light, as if a death fire burned beneath it. Her mussed hair stood out further, as if full of its own life. Her bloodshot eyes bored into me, seeking the depths of my soul, holding it, judging it.

  Had she finally found me worthy?

  Then she deliberately turned her head, cast her gaze to the far corner of the room where most of the shadows lay, her look growing distant.

  “There’s so much pain,” Mother said, her whispered words swirling around us, binding us together. “He’s been beaten, broken, remade.” Her voice took on more strength as she continued. “In the fire. In the fire!”

  With that, Mother screamed, wrenching her hands from me and covering her face as if to block out the sight.

  “Mother, please,” I said, reaching out for her. What had she seen? I had to know.

  “Splintered! Remade!” she shrieked, rocking back and forth. Then she turned and gripped my shoulders with fingers that felt like iron claws.

  “You must save him. Release his soul.” The glow emanating from her skin faded, but her eyes still burned with a frightful fire, deep and pitiless. “He’s all steel and sharp edges, your lovely soft mate. You must break the curse, free him from this horror.”

  Her words sank into my flesh as effortlessly as the arrows from the attack. But I couldn’t consider the pain right now.

  “Where, Mother? Where is he?” I asked urgently. She had to tell me where to go, where I would recover my love.

  “Court. You must go to the Emperor’s court. You’ll find your Norihiko there, recreated as a guardian sword,” Mother said all in a rush, pushing the words at me.

  The burden of revenge already laid on my shoulders doubled in weight. I wanted to weep as my mother did, scream and rage against fate.

  A sword? My lovely, kind, honorable Norihiko had been reforged into a sword? I shivered, the horror overtaking me. How he must have suffered!

  Then the flames Mother saw redoubled in my own heart. The sorcerer who had done this to my beloved would pay double now, pay with pain as well as his life.

  I must not have been paying Mother enough attention, because she suddenly shrieked again. “You must take heed! Or the pain, the fire, the heat, and the splintering will take you too!”

  Then she fell back on the mat. “The flames! The hammering!” She held her arms up in front of her and thrashed from side to side, as if trying to escape a beating.

  I grabbed onto Mother’s shoulders and shook her. “Mother!” I called.

  This was much worse than any other vision I’d ever witnessed. She couldn’t free herself from it. It was as if she were reliving it, experiencing the agony my Norihiko had gone through when he’d been reforged into a sword.

  I called her name and shook her again, but she didn’t know me, couldn’t hear me, couldn’t come back to this place.

  I’d seen my mother tear her hair and weep, play the martyr to what she’d witnessed, but she’d never been as bad as this. She pulled away from me, shrieking in pain as she cried.

  I didn’t know what to do to comfort her, how to bring her out of her vision. I felt as helpless as when my servants had died in the carriage, poor Ume and her soundless screams.

  Finally, Etsu came in. She was properly dressed, her makeup and hair perfectly done. I may have resented her taking the time to do it, however, I fully understood being prepared when dealing with Mother and her visions.

  Etsu’s servants carried a calm, herbal tea, as well as sage–green cloths soaked in lavender water.

  When Etsu called Mother’s name, she calmed immediately. Her frantic thrashing stopped. Her tears continued, but at least she no longer shrieked or moaned.

  Eventually, between Etsu and me, we got Mother to drink some of the tea. It helped the most, and Mother’s tears dried soon after that.

  Had Etsu put some sort of spell on it? She was the most magical of all my sisters.

  When Mother finally closed her eyes and went limp against the sleeping mat, Etsu and I rose. Mother always needed quiet to sleep, particularly after such a grueling vision. We would wait, as we always did, on the far side of the shoji in case Mother needed us, called us back, as she frequently would.

  “Wait. Stop,” Mother called before we could escape.

  I didn’t express my exasperation, but instead, plastered a pleasant smile on my face and turned, ever attentive.

  “Give her the box,” Mother croaked out, her voice rough and hoarse after so much screaming.

  Etsu issued a sharp order to one of her servants before she went back and knelt again next to Mother’s sleeping mat.

  I followed, more curious than impatient.

  We didn’t make the mistake of trying to talk with Mother now, ask her how she was or if she needed anything. It was better for her to rest and not think up new tasks for us.

  The servant returned. She entered Mother’s room on her knees, a square, red–lacquered box held above her head so her breath wouldn’t spoil its perfect surface. She presented it with a low bow to my sister, who in turn bowed and gave the
box to me.

  The workmanship on the box was exquisite. The lacquer so polished that I could almost see my reflection in it. The box fit comfortably into the palm of my hand and was as light as a puff of down.

  Inside the box, on a pile of the finest red silk, lay a small, bead–shaped wooden amulet, about the size of an acorn. The wood was golden brown, and the sides were carved in an intricate design—like the twisted branches of a thorn bush—then filled in with black.

  The bead was warm to the touch, and felt heavier than it looked when I put it in the palm of my hand, as if it were carved from lead.

  Mother gestured wordlessly for me to come closer.

  I held out my hand with the bead to her.

  With just a finger, Mother touched the bead.

  A tingling shock ran up my arm. She’d just cast magic on it. The bead felt even heavier, now.

  “It won’t save you,” Mother instructed, her voice reedy and soft. “But it may keep your spirit and body united in a time of great need.”

  What did that mean? What else had Mother seen?

  Of course, she wasn’t about to tell me. I’d never understood why all fortune tellers could only tell some of what they’d seen.

  Maybe some things were too horrific to bear. Or perhaps knowing more wouldn’t change things.

  Etsu produced a long leather cord. After I threaded the bead through it, she tied the cord around my neck. I hid it under my robes, the weight an extra comfort.

  “Thank you,” I told Mother.

  She barely nodded before she passed into dreams.

  Etsu and I rose again, this time making it out of the room. Etsu’s servants set up pillows and brought tea for us, my mother’s lazy women nowhere to be seen.

  We stayed quiet for a while, each lost in her own thoughts.

  I knew where I had to go, what I had to do. I didn’t know the details, like how to free Norihiko from this terrible curse. But that would come.

  Mother had seen me meeting the sorcerer responsible for this terrible deed. I was certain of it. She’d also seen the danger I would be in when I confronted this man and had provided me with protection.