Sky of Paper: An Asian Steam-Driven Fantasy Tale

by Matthew Seaver

  SKY OF PAPER

  By Matthew P. Seaver

  THE DAY WHEN THE SKY FELL

  It was the day I was to die. . .

  The sensation was unforgettable; the smell of fire upon the hull, the pungent odor of ash as it wrenched my nostrils. As the tattered ship buckled, then teetered to one side in its final moments, I gazed through the glass canopy as the opposing airships let loose the fire of their cannons and rockets.

  This would be the final time the spirits would share the heavens with me. The crew had long since thrown themselves overboard and floated upon chutes like cherry blossoms to the waiting ocean below, and just a moment before, the monks had joined them after sounding the ship's gong some decks above as one last plea of mercy to the gods of the sun and moon. Being a young boy with nothing left to offer the world, I knew they had little reason to spare me.

  Both wood and metal creaked and snapped, and the weight of my feet began to grow light, a fearful sign that, like a bird torn of its wings, the airship had begun its sudden descent. The entire compartment tipped ever steeper as the roaring volley lashed like the swiping claws of a dragon upon the ship's flank.

  I quickly lost my footing and my face slammed against the deck.

  This was it.

  My life had reached its end. The war, which had violently torn everything from me, would mercifully allow me a few more breaths before taking me from this world.

  I thought I was prepared. I thought I was brave enough to face it. But as I lifted my eyes, I saw the girl that had refused to leave me be to my fate.

  She was on her knees with her hands crossed atop her lap, and her face remained as calm and dignified as the legendary emperors of our country's past. Her robes were dirty and plain, but the way she wore them inspired a beauty that rivaled that of any kimono I had ever seen.

  Her lips moved, but her voice was quickly drowned by the sharp howls and moans of the collapsing bulkheads.

  I must have heard something that my fading memory can no longer recall -perhaps a word or phrase-, because what she said at that moment reminded me of home. My eyes filled with tears and all at once, my want of death disappeared and I found myself yearning to live again.

  BOOK ONE

  Chapter 1

  The Moon God never intended to create the Islands of Rui Nan.

  A long time ago, when the world was only water, the Moon God took his brush, and with great, broad strokes, painted the mighty continent of Kin Ju. He painted and painted as if he were brushing the shapes of decorative leaves upon the face of a rice paper lantern, until Kin Ju covered almost one half of the world. So focused and passionate was he in his masterpiece, that he’d forgotten that there was still empty ocean on the other side.

  After he’d finished, he put the brush aside without knowing it was still dripping with paint. The drops from the brush splattered about the empty side of the world. Hundreds of islands in all sorts of shapes and sizes formed from the fallen paint. The Moon God -whom I’ve been told was an easily pleased deity- was glad for the mistaken blemish, for he felt that Kin Ju was deserving of a little brother. These vast, majestic islands would carry the name, Rui Nan.

  Even on her deathbed, my mother told me stories such as these. It was this particular story, one of divine creation, that I held most dear. Not for religious reasons, mind you, but because, in a way, the story is a vague reflection of my life. You see, for all my desires and wants, it is the mistakes, the unintended things that makes it truly memorable.

  It is in these pages that I have written the details of my extraordinary childhood and about the fates of those I’ve met along my journey, whose lives were every bit as incredible as mine.

  More importantly, this is a story about a world that has long since faded to obscurity; a world where children were once masters of the sky and where a wayward emperor sought to unite all under heaven. And it begins where God had splattered the paint from his brush.

  * * *

  "All hail the Emperor!" cried the village leader as he stood at the top of the temple steps, leading everyone in the morning chants.

  "May he rule us with wisdom," replied the villagers as they stood obediently in neat rows in the center of the village, bowing at the waist.

  "All hail the Emperor!"

  "May he rule us with strength."

  "All hail the Emperor!"

  "May he grant us prosperity and wealth."

  Such was the chant my sister and I recited every morning before we began our day. Before morning meals, we always gathered at the temple before the village leader -who was also the leader of our prefecture- and made our loyalties known.

  To our nation and to our divine emperor, these were the very things my sister and I, and all the humble creatures of heaven and earth were bound to. Being a naive boy of thirteen under the sole care of a sister that was only five years older than I, we lived during a time where the only certainty, was knowing that the next day, we’d be in morning chants again, renewing our faith in our sacred nation. Even though I thought of our chants as completely mundane, my sister, who was very proud of our country, always made sure that I never forgot the importance of being at the temple with the other villagers just before sunrise.

  "Recite the three virtues," she demanded every morning as we returned home from our morning chants.

  "Loyalty to the Emperor, honor above self, and spirit in all we do," I once replied in a snarky tone.

  She struck me on the shoulder as the brown freckles on her face seemed to turn black, an unmistakable sign that she was upset. "Terr, you‘d better take this seriously. Next time you don‘t answer respectfully, I’ll use a stick instead."

  I gave her a sour look, which prompted another, much harder strike from her hand.

  When our mother passed away to illness two years earlier, it was left to my sister assume her role. Since then, I’d seen her grow stern and protective, as if our mother's spirit had left its tired body only to inhabit hers. With the disappearance of our father long before I was born and before my sister was too young to remember, we‘d learned to accept our fate as abandoned siblings. A brother and sister facing unpredictable times with only our pride left to lose. At least that was how we saw things.

  You see, it was during the time of a major depression. Every town that dotted the islands of Rui Nan, except for the capital and a few large cities, suffered due to lack of money, food and even water. The village of Rune, my home, was no exception, and though we didn’t fall to such great poverty that we were starving to death, every villager secretly wished for more than just two small meals a day and perhaps a little more money to afford more than just two sets of clothing.

  I suppose that was why no one wanted to adopt us. Two new mouths to feed would’ve been too much of a burden for anyone. But despite all this, I’d grown to admire my sister, for she’d managed to keep the both of us fed, and clothed, as well as keep us warm during the cold winters. She even worked at the local factory in order to make enough money so that I could continue to attend school.

  My mother once said that there is no beauty in a pile of twigs. But once a bird has made a nest of such seemingly useless things and fills it with eggs, it then becomes something sacred, as there is no greater beauty than that of life born of nothing. That’s how I had come to see our tired, old home. Past the dead vegetable garden and through the broken walls of our house, were the precious possessions of my family, buried snuggly inside. Mother's pottery lay neatly stacked in one corner of the living room. My sister wanted to sell them, but changed her mind after I cried for two days, accusing that if she did that, she’d be giving mother's soul a
way.

  On the other side of the room lay my sister's rice paper paintings. Some were hung on the walls, but most of them sat carefully stacked on the table next to the window. Every few days, she would take a roll of paper and some black ink, and step outside where she would paint the sky in broad, round strokes. Every painting was a picture of how the clouds appeared that day. She believed that certain clouds brought luck, and it was those she copied. Even on days when the sky was empty, she painted anyways, brushing away at white, wispy images she saw in her mind. One painting was worth five days of luck, or so she claimed.

  I sometimes imagined her covering the walls with her pictures until not a single speck of wood or concrete could be seen, and then I’d wonder how breath-taking that would’ve been, to be surrounded from every angle, from ceiling to floor, with wall-papered images of the sky.

  "I’m off to the factory now Terr,” she said one morning as she packed some rice and fish into her leather bag. “After school, buy some wood for the stove."

  Just before she left, she kissed me on the forehead, something my mother constantly did, but coming from my sister, somehow always felt awkward.

  “Sister.”

  She paused at the door.

  “Is it worth it? Working at the factory I mean.”

  She squeezed her bag, letting the rubbery sound it made carry her sigh for her. “I know what you’re asking. And now is not the time to talk about it.”

  “Then when will it be? You’re always complaining about work and about how little money we have.”

  “Then I won’t complain anymore,” she said suddenly. “Besides, the factory is no place for a little boy.

  “I’m not a little boy,” I replied in a tone that was probably harsher than I meant it to be. “And if you think that’s all I am, then I’ll prove to you that I’m not.”

  “You’ll prove nothing.” She threw her bag to the floor. “Keep to your studies. Keep to your schooling, and let me worry about the money.” She moved towards me, waving her finger. “ And I’d better not catch you stepping one foot into that factory.”

  “Fine, I won’t.”

  She didn’t seem convinced.

  “I said I won’t,” I repeated.

  She still wasn’t convinced.

  I was still simmering that day after school while I was returning home from the mill, bringing back a bundle of wood. But the spectacle that awaited me, would soon make me forget about the frustrations of that morning.

  The mill was some ways outside of town, so I often found myself going along a dirt road, surrounded by flat, grassy fields. I walked until the crowded, hunched buildings of Rune peeked over the hill in front of me. It was then that I heard the harbor bell ring.

  In those days, Rune was considered a port town, even though we were no where near the ocean. This was because the ships we harbored were not the ones from the sea, but rather, from the air. The bell clanged, signaling the approach of one such ship. As I looked up, anticipating the sight of a large, black dot in the distance, I was startled by a heavy rumble, like the sound of a distant earthquake. The sound grew louder and I felt my own body begin to shake. Birds panicked and flew from their hiding places in the grass as the mumbled tremors shuddered the ground beneath my feet. I dropped the bundle, and just before I could cover my ears from the unbearable noise, a great dragon's head peered over the wood mill behind me. When I turned in the direction of the sound, I saw a pair of large, angry red eyes glaring fiercely in my direction.

  I instantly felt dizzy from the sudden rush of fear that gripped my chest, and stumbled to the ground as the rest of the creature flew by, revealing the enormity of its lizard-like body. I screamed so suddenly, I didn’t know I was crying out until a man nearby, annoyed by my squealing, told me to be quiet.

  The man, who was dressed in brown leather overalls, must have been one of the mill workers. He sauntered towards me and abruptly shoved his palm against the side of my head. The slap returned me to my senses, and I instantly frowned in a vain attempt to hide my embarrassment. I looked up and saw that the dragon was actually just an image painted on the underside of an airship as it flew low to the ground. For a brief moment I felt as though I were at the bottom of the ocean, watching as an enormous whale-like creature glided gracefully by. Steam burst out in whirling clouds from its sides as if it were exhaling large, powerful breaths, fatigued from its long, exhausting voyage. I felt the sting of the mans slap against my forehead again and instinctively grabbed his wrist.

  "Stop it!" I said.

  As I looked up at him, I realized that he was hardly a man at all, probably barely older than my sister. He yanked his arm from my grasp and laughed, running his hand through his short-cut black hair.

  "I’ve never heard a scream like yours before,“ he taunted. “It sounds like someone beating a sick dog. Did you think that airship was going to eat you? How about I hit you again? Maybe that‘ll help cure you of those hallucinations."

  "Go away." I stood up, turning my frown into an angry stare.

  He continued amusing himself with his incessant laughing as I picked up the wood bundle and started back home.

  I could still hear the growling sounds of the dragon-painted airship and turned my eyes skyward again, watching it float away as it left a thick trail of steam and smoke in its wake.

  There was a time when such ships used to arrive once or twice a month, which I felt was typical, because I didn’t think our village was important enough to have many visitors. However, each time they came, I imagined them to be mysterious foreigners from a world far beyond the boundaries of my home. I’d lived in Rune all my life and always wondered if such visitors were just as exotic as the ships they came in. As embarrassed as I was of my foolish reaction to the vessel‘s sudden appearance, I was glad to have had a chance to see it, for this was the closest I had ever been to one.

  "Go home to your mother little boy. Maybe she can protect you from the scary dragon."

  I frowned again, trying to hold back the urge to yell back at him. But it wasn’t long before I gave in to my impulses, and in a moment of spite, dropped the bundle, picked up a pebble and threw it at him. I think it must’ve hit his neck, or a sensitive part of his shoulder, because he barked from the pain, then sprinted after me.

  I don’t remember the details of the chase, nor the pain of his fists when he eventually caught up with me. But what I did remember, was the inspired feeling I had as I ran after the airship. Though I followed the long, snaking trail of steam it had left lingering in the sky, I slowly came to realize that all my efforts were in vain. When it finally disappeared, I was suddenly reminded of the young man I’d all-too quickly forgotten. I felt the grasp of his calloused hand against my sleeve and the blunt thud of the earth as I tripped and struck my head against the ground. I began to regret acting so brashly, because my anger turned to fear as I felt the pale thump of his balled hands against my chest and face. I fought back as best as I could, but my limp arms only struck empty air.

  "Say you're sorry! Say you're sorry!" He repeated, each time striking my body. I was too scared to say anything, let alone apologize.

  He stopped after his hands were adequately smeared with the blood that oozed from my nose. I writhed on the ground, crying. He cussed and spat, then, feeling satisfied, proceeded to walk away.

  I waited until he was some ways away, then, as I slowly stood up, I found myself committing yet another regretful act. I picked up another pebble and threw it at him.

  There‘s a street in Rune I used to walk everyday. It was the only street at the time that was paved with concrete and asphalt, unlike the other roads, which were just dirt and gravel. It didn’t matter where I was going or where I was coming from since all the village’s paths and trails eventually went through it. On either side of the road, wooden buildings huddled together like bricks in a wall. Most were shops dotted here and there with a few scattered houses. In the evenings the pale lights from their windows seemed to give the s
treet its own life, teeming with humble glows that acted like eyes, blinking and flickering as they pretended to watch people go by. Though it was considered the very center of the village, it was almost always quiet with little of the bustle and noise that we all see and hear in the cities of today. It was in its own way, a serene, sometimes calming place. I passed the fortune teller several times a week, watching her pray near the entrance of her shop, inhaling the wisps of incense and ash that flowed from her open door. There was an old man a few buildings further down that had taught his grand daughter how to play a simple-looking stringed instrument. Sometimes I would hear the girl, pluck tirelessly at it as I walked by. Our eyes would meet and we would nod or smile at each other without a single exchange of words.

  This time, however, I was limping down that same street with my throbbing face smeared with blood and tears. I clutched my aching shoulder and walked as if I had accidentally pressed my bare feet onto broken glass. Even though it was a stupid thing to do -throwing that second stone and provoking a second beating from him- I was all-too-glad that I had done it. I felt more alive than ever. Even deep inside, there was a perverse tinge of pride. Surprisingly, there was hardly any pain, but I pretended that my wounds were far worse than they really were, exaggerating my limps and staggering about like an injured, noble animal. I held my head up high as if I were coming back from a great and glorious battle. While people regarded me with great skepticism, the fortune teller, who was sweeping her porch, simply stared with hardly any expression on her face. The grand daughter I had grown familiar with, paused from her practice and gave me a hesitant smile. I returned a wide grin. Her curiosity lasted for barely a moment before she turned her attention back to her instrument.