by Emiko Jean
The lead samurai spoke again, voice echoing through the mountain. “The emperor is dead. Long live the empress.” Keeping his kneeling position, the samurai looked up at Mari.
Mari bristled. Protests hovered on her tongue. I am just a girl. I am not fit to rule. I am a pretender. Just as quickly as the doubts came, she dismissed them. The corners of her lips curled up ever so slightly. “The empire is mine,” she said, voice unwavering.
The lead samurai dipped his chin. “We await your command.”
Chapter 56
Akira
The first time he saw her, he thought she was a ghost.
But ghosts didn’t need rōnin to carry them about, didn’t have samurai bowing to them. Ignoring Hanako and Ren’s sounds of protest, Akira dropped from the trees, right into the center of the circle surrounding Mari. She is alive.
All at once the samurai stood, spears pointed at Akira’s neck. The Son of Nightmares held up his hands.
“It’s all right,” Mari said, voice husky. Begrudgingly, the samurai laid down their arms. The rōnin adjusted Mari in his arms. The imperial samurai tensed, unsure of these samurai beholden to no master. “It’s all right,” she assured the samurai again. She patted the rōnin’s shoulder. “He’s just going to set me down so I might speak with my friend.” With the utmost gentleness, Hiro placed Mari into a sitting position on a boulder thick with moss. The samurai took up different positions around her.
Akira flexed his hands at his sides. “This is my fault. You will never know how sorry I am.”
Mari’s eyes clouded with agony. “I think that you and I have apologized to each other enough for one lifetime. Besides, someone once told me, we are our own worst punishers.”
“A thousand times over,” said Akira.
“Then I won’t add to your pain.” Mari’s eyes traveled past Akira, just beyond the trees, to Tsuma. “My mother?” Mari asked, her voice filled with tentative hope.
Akira shook his head.
“Yuka?” she asked.
Akira nodded. “She’s alive.” Mari’s heart lifted, then dropped when Akira continued. “But she’s been taken back to the palace. All the surviving Animal Wives have been captured.”
The sun crawled against the sky. The two rōnin, along with the other samurai, stayed close to Mari. Akira wondered why the samurai stayed, what had incurred their loyalty, but his questions would have to wait. Tears snaked down Mari’s cheeks as she thought of her people imprisoned in the Winter Room. “Hanako? Ren?” she asked on a final breath.
Akira managed a smile. Sticking two fingers in his mouth, he whistled. From a slope, the Snow Girl and the demon appeared.
“You’re alive!” Hanako exclaimed, rushing forward.
The samurai tensed and moved to block the Snow Girl. But Mari had them stand down with a simple flick of her wrist.
Hanako halted in her tracks, but a winsome smile played on her lips. “Look, Ren,” she said, taking a hold of the demon’s hand.
Ren dipped into a low bow.
The sun had shifted, now merely an orange ghost on the horizon. Mari shivered and began to pale.
The brooding rōnin addressed the empress. “We should go. You need to rest.”
Mari shook her head. “A little longer, please.”
“We were going to the West Lands,” Akira told her. “We were planning to leave tonight.”
“Oh.” Mari’s brow dipped. “It seems I am still Empress.” Wind ruffled her hair.
Hanako nodded. “Your place is in the Imperial City.”
“There is much work to be done,” Mari said.
Ren grunted.
Hanako interpreted for him. “Satoshi, the High Priest, has assumed the throne.”
“He must be disposed of.” My people must be saved. Mari’s tone was regal, her command law.
“I imagine he’ll be difficult about leaving,” said Akira.
“Difficult but not impossible,” Hanako said. “Especially if you have help,” Hanako addressed Mari.
“Yes. I believe the samurai will follow me. But the priests . . .”
“Have either been killed or have fled. And if they return, they are no match against me,” Akira interjected.
“I’d be even better equipped if I had a Weapons Master and an oni by my side.”
Hanako smiled. She stroked Ren’s shoulder. “I was born to fell an empire. Coups are a specialty of mine.”
Mari breathed in. “It’s settled, then. We will go east instead, to the Imperial City.”
“We will reclaim your throne,” Hanako declared.
“It won’t be easy,” Akira said, his soul lifting.
Mari shrugged. “We’ll find a way.”
The Last Empress
From the sky, Sugita watched the humans bow to a female yōkai in a forest near a burnt village. Anger darkened his face. This was not the will of the gods and goddesses. She did not bear the signature mark, the smudge between her brows. Yet the humans venerated her.
“Ungrateful,” Sugita cursed. He called for the lightning staircase, but it did not come. He cursed again and called for his sister Kita.
She approached him in the sky and gazed down on the bloodied battlefield. “What a shame,” she said.
“Lend me your staircase, and I will smite them,” Sugita demanded.
Kita clucked her tongue. “No, brother. I think you have done enough.”
Their sisters Umiko and Aiko appeared.
“Help me destroy these mortals!” Sugita shouted.
“No, brother. We will govern from here,” said Kita. At that, the three sisters seized control of the heavens and earth. But because the sisters knew what their brother never did—that true strength lies in compassion, they did not destroy him. Sugita was relegated to the skies.
While the female yōkai empress slept that night, Kita descended her staircase and touched the female’s forehead. A smudge appeared. But then Kita thought better of it. She wiped the smudge away. “You do not need us. You will rule on your own.”
The female yōkai, Mari, Empress of Honoku, marched to the Imperial City. In each town, each village she strode through, humans and yōkai alike joined her cause.
“Soon we will open our hands instead of clenching our fists,” she promised. And her promise became the people’s war cry. The banner they fought under.
When they arrived in the Imperial City, they stormed the palace and placed a metal collar upon Satoshi that would remain upon him all the days of his miserable, caged life. Besides the one he wore, metal collars were outlawed, melted in the streets while yōkai danced amid the flames.
There wasn’t always harmony.
The female yōkai led the charge in two wars: the West Lands Uprising and the Gray Robe Rebellion. Stories for another time. Though she was regarded as mostly fair and just, there was rumored to be a dark side to the empress’s rule. There was a man whom no one ever saw but all knew—the Son of Nightmares. An assassin. The bloody hand of the empress.
Still, her reign was known as the Golden Age. It was said the empress had loved her emperor so wildly, so deeply, that she never married again. Hearing this, the empress would smile knowingly and say, “We love our brothers. But not every happily-ever-after includes a man.” And so it was.
An Empress for All Beings.
The Empress of All Seasons.
Glossary
ashura—yōkai, demon with three faces, six arms, and three eyes
daimyō—a feudal lord, subordinate of the shōgun
dōshin—lesser samurai, performs job of prison guard or patrol officer
futakuchi-onna—yōkai, a two-mouthed woman
hakama—pleated trousers, worn over kimono
hari-onago—yōkai, Hook Girl
hashi—chopsticks
ibushi-ki—smoke pot
irori—a sunken hearth used for heating the home or cooking food
jorōgumo—yōkai, arachnid woman
juban—undergarment
jubokko—yōkai, blood-vampire tree
kamaitachi—yōkai, sickle weasel
kappa—yōkai, river child
katana—sword
kijimuna—redheaded, one-legged yōkai that dwells in Banyan trees
kimono—robe
kirin—yōkai, revered animal resembling a deer but with dragon scales
kiseru—long pipe
kodama—yōkai, tree spirit
komainu—lion dogs
kudzu—creeping vine where snakes hide
mon—emblem used to identify an individual or family
naginata—curved blade on a long shaft
namahage—yōkai, demon resembling oni
ninja—assassin
nunchaku—two sticks connected at one end by a short chain or rope
nure-onago—water girl
obi—sash
oni—the strongest yōkai
ono—axe
rōnin—masterless samurai
ryō—gold currency
sake—rice wine
samurai—warrior, usually serving under a daimyō
shachihoko—animal with the head of a tiger and body of a carp
shamisen—three-stringed instrument
shōgun—military dictator
shuriken—throwing stars
taiko—drum
tantō—small knife
tanuki—yōkai, raccoon-dog
tatami—straw mat
tekko-kagi—climbing spikes
tengu—yōkai, giant birdlike creature
uwagi—kimono-like jacket
waki-gamae—naginata position
wakizashi—small sword
washi paper—paper made from the bark of the gampi tree
yamabiko—yōkai, doglike in appearance with a voice that can mimic sounds, often thought responsible for echoes
yamawaro—yōkai, mountain child
yōkai—supernatural phenomena including monsters, spirits, and demons that range from malevolent to mischievous to harbingers of good fortune
yukata—a lightweight kimono
yuki-onna—yōkai, snow woman
Acknowledgments
Over the years I’ve written a lot of stuff. Each piece I remember differently, each challenged me in a new and exciting way and each has a very special place in my heart. I can honestly say this is the hardest I’ve ever worked on a manuscript, both in researching and forging an emotional connection. It hallmarks a rekindling of my cultural heritage.
My great grandparents emigrated from Japan. In another manuscript I wrote a character that is half-Japanese and half-white (like me). In it they say: “what a shame it is to have lost yourself before you’re even born.” In my life, I’ve often felt this way, disconnected from my Asian roots. So it is no coincidence that I created Akira, a character who struggles with his mixed-race identity, where he belongs and how the world perceives him. Much like Akira (and Mari) I never felt like “enough.” This book was truly a labor of love. I owe so many people thanks.
All of my love to my family: Kiya, Mariko, Nathan, Liz, Dad and Mom. And Craig (husband), if I wrote all the ways I love you, we would need several more books. During the publishing of this novel, my life changed in a significant way. I welcomed my twin babies into the world, born prematurely at just thirty-one weeks. Before their birth, I spent a month hospitalized on bed rest. After, both babies were in the NICU for a month. The weeks in the hospital, the sleepless nights, the painful cesarean recovery—I’ll never regret any of it. Yumi and Kenzo, you are my greatest blessings. I am so thankful to be your mother. May you never ignore your growing sense of disquiet. I’d also like to mention my fabulous mother-in-law, Elaine, who, along with my other family, sat with me for hours upon hours while I was hospitalized. You’ll never know how grateful I was for all of your company. I hope this serves as my eternal thank-you.
I am deeply grateful to: all the staff at HMH Books for Young Readers who had a hand in publishing this book, especially Nicole Sclama, who worked tirelessly on this and who was incredibly supportive when my babies came unexpectedly early. Also thanks to Sarah Landis for seeing this puppy through to copy edits.
Very special thanks to Erin Harris for being a fabulous agent and career life coach. I appreciate you so much and hold you in the highest regard.
A team of experts helped fine-tune this novel. Thanks to Laura and Rebecca, my secret weapons. And to Jeremy and Misa, sensitivity readers.
Many books helped the world and characters of Honoku take shape: Handbook of Japanese Mythology by Michael Ashkenazi, MFA Highlights Arts of Japan by Anne Nishimura Morse, Sarah E. Thompson, Joe Earle, and Rachel Saunders, Japanese Art and Design edited by Gregory Irvine, The World of the Shining Prince: Court Life in Ancient Japan by Ivan Morris, The Book of Yōkai by Michael Dylan Foster, and Edo Culture: Daily Life and Diversions in Urban Japan, 1600–1868 by Nishiyama Matsunosuke.
And finally, thanks the YA community—the readers, bloggers, booksellers, book buyers, BookTubers, and writers.
chapter
1
Savage Isle
IN MY MIND THERE ARE BLACK-AND-WHITE PHOTOS. They float around, landing softly here and there, resting on top of other memories, dreamscapes and nightmares. Sometimes they bloom color, like the one I’m focusing on now. It unfolds, like a flower opening for the sun, the petals wet and dark. Slowly it bleeds brilliant pigments. Dark sky. Clear rain. Yellow headlights. A boy with curly hair and a crooked grin. Jason in the rain. My favorite memory of him.
“When was your last period?” the nurse asks me. “Alice?” The nurse’s voice is like snapping fingers, calling me to attention. The image fades. White paper crinkles as I shift uncomfortably on the exam table. I try to count the hours, the suns and moons, and remember how much time has passed since the fire. It’s been weeks, I think. Tsunamis have decimated cities in less time than that. I rub a hand over my chest where breathing is still difficult. The nurse’s white ID badge reads NURSE DUMMEL, OREGON STATE MENTAL HEALTH HOSPITAL. I recognize her face from before, from my last stay here. The face of a bulldog. Round cheeks set over a row of bottom teeth that stick out just a smidge too far. Nurse Dummel clears her throat.
“Uh, I don’t know . . .” I say. “I’m not sure. Maybe two weeks ago?” I swallow. Even though it’s been a while since the fire, my tongue still tastes of ash. Maybe it always will.
Nurse Dummel types something into a computer. “And how are the burns?”
The burns that travel over each shoulder blade and down past my right wrist tingle. Miraculously, the fire didn’t touch my left hand. The skin there is still soft and smooth. “Better,” I say.
Although I don’t remember the fire, I do have some fuzzy recollections of my intensive care stay. The bitter uncertainty of those days and the bright, bright pain that just wouldn’t go away.
“That all?” the nurse asks. “No pain, numbness, or swelling?”
“No. It’s just itchy now.”
Outside, wind howls and shakes the thin walls of the building. A shudder rolls through me. Oregon State Mental Health Hospital is located on a thin strip of densely forested island. The hospital advertises itself as a peaceful haven where troubled souls recover, but there’s nothing tranquil about this place. Even the name of the island, Savage Isle, was born from blood. In the late 1800s, a hundred Native Americans were forcibly relocated here, only to be killed later in a massacre. Old newspapers say there was so much blood that winter, it looked as if red snow had fallen from the sky.
“That’s good. You’re lucky you can feel anything at all. Some second-degree burns cause loss of sensation.” Lucky. Am I lucky? That’s not how I would characterize the situation.
“You’ll need to stay on antibiotics for the next couple of weeks and keep up with your physical therapy.” I almost laugh. When I left the ICU, a doctor gave me a pamphlet on hand exercises, explaining that they would help me regain full mobility. That was the only physical therapy I received. I flex my
hand now. The movement causes a subtle ache, but other than that, everything appears to work just fine.
A white wristband prints out next to the computer. “Left wrist please,” Nurse Dummel says, gesturing for me to hold out my arm. I comply, and she snaps on the tight plastic. There are four colors of wristbands at Savage Isle. I have worn them all before. All except for red. Nobody wants a red wristband. Upon admittance, everyone is given the standard white, and after a period of about twenty-four to forty-eight hours on semi-restricted status, they’re usually granted a yellow wristband that comes with very few restrictions. After yellow comes green. Green means go. Stay up late, visit home, drink caffeine, get out of Savage Isle.
“All right, kiddo,” Nurse Dummel sighs, handing me a pair of ratty scrubs. “Stand up, take everything off, and put these on.”
I wait a heartbeat to see if she’s going to leave and give me some privacy, but she just stands there, watching me with a hawk’s stare. I change quick and quiet and I think of Jason. When we kissed, his lips tasted like fresh spring water and hot tamales. I didn’t have the courage to ask about him in the hospital. I feared his fate. Sometimes not knowing is better than knowing. Still, somewhere inside me the truth clanks like a ball and chain . . . It’s not possible he made it out of the fire alive. I ignore it. Denial is kinder, more gentle. Uninvited thoughts of Cellie pop into my mind, but I push them away. I refuse to waste worry on my twin. Worry is lost on her.
When I finish putting on the scrubs, I throw my hoodie back on, hoping the nurse will let me keep it. I don’t like being cold. She doesn’t notice, or pretends not to, and gestures toward my shoes. “All right, shoelaces have to come off. This your bag?” She points to the corner of the room where a lavender duffel sits on the floor. It’s worn and dirty, the color almost bleached to gray.
I pull my sneakers off and de-thread the laces. The nurse shakes her head a little as she slips on a pair of latex gloves. She picks up my bag and places it on the exam table. In a detached and efficient manner she sorts through my things. A couple of pairs of pants, some shirts, an iPod, toothbrush, toothpaste, some floss, and origami paper, all my worldly possessions.
