I lift the sheet and study the characters I've penned. My very first poem. I remember how those verses came to me, as if whispered into my ear by a messenger of Heaven. That moment of inspiration, the balance of imagery and rhythm, the joy of creating something beautiful—I fell in love with it. All of it.
"As a lord's wife, I could write within my home, but my skill would only go so far," I say, setting the paper aside. "A poet must be stimulated by beauty, philosophy, and debate. Only then will that talent reach its greatest potential. And the one place, the only place for that, is the Imperial Court."
Oku mulls over my explanation quietly, as Munesada did that long-ago night. I remember looking at his bowed head, certain he finally understood. Then I made the mistake of asking, "And why, dear brother, are you so desperate for me to stay?"
He lifted his eyes. "Haven't you paid attention the last fifty nights?" he said, smiling sadly. "I love you, Komachi."
My heart skipped a beat. Then it hit me. His feelings were real. They had been all along. I was the one too stubborn to recognize them for what they were.
Things changed after that. Munesada continued his visits, but instead of talking about his affections, he spoke of court life. About the different factions vying for power, the cattiness of the Emperor's wives, the overworked courtiers, the politics, the backstabbing, and the scandal.
It was a new tactic to discourage me. I could tell, especially when he spoke at length about the difficult lot of new concubines, how they ranked just above servants. Yet I also knew he wasn't lying or exaggerating. In retrospect, I realize how naïve I was. I saw the palace only for its art and beauty. Munesada wanted me to recognize what lurked beneath its glittering façade.
His ploy worked. I had been so sure of myself, but once I learned what my dream entailed, that confidence wavered. The more I heard, the more doubt increased, and the faithfulness Munesada displayed every night made me keenly aware of what I would lose by entering the palace.
"Lady Komachi." Oku's voice jolts me back to the present. "How did it end?"
I trace a finger over the carved butterflies decorating a paperweight. "Summer turned to fall. The weather grew chill, and the cold rains began. Yet Munesada continued coming.
"Then, on the hundredth night, a tremendous storm hit.
"Rain fell in a torrent, turning streams into rivers and flooding lowlands. Fierce gusts sent trees crashing. Thunder boomed like the war drums of the gods.
"And amid the lightning, wind, and mayhem, a mudslide hit."
The servants had been outside, clearing an ancient camphor tree that had fallen upon the main gate, when through the wail of the storm came an enormous groaning. They looked, and before their astonished eyes, a slope gave way, trees and shrubs going down in a rush of mud.
Fortunately, it didn't endanger the estate. The road was another matter.
"The slide went right across the road," I say. "Even if Munesada braved the storm, the path to our house was cut off."
Oku sighs and pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve. "The poor Chamberlain," she says, dabbing her eyes. "So that's how it ended."
That was not how it ended.
The thunderstorm had been brewing all that day. I'd watched with anxious anticipation as black clouds gathered, cutting off the sun like a screen. Then shortly before evening, lightning split the skies, and with the driving rain came something akin to relief.
This is it. Divine affirmation. My emotions had been chaotic the last few days. At times, my heart softened toward Munesada. Once I caught myself daydreaming about a life with him, of poems written as husband and wife. Other moments, my desire to go to the palace burned so strongly I wanted to run to its gates and throw myself in. My thoughts were in such a whirl I didn't know what to do.
The storm made everything clear. The gods had a destiny for me. When the road washed away, I knew the path Heaven decreed lay not with Munesada, but the Imperial Court.
I readied for bed that night with a renewed sense of purpose. The palace was where I belonged; I would enter it free of doubt. But though the assurance of Heaven bolstered my confidence, I felt no joy.
I guess I'll always wonder what would've happened if Munesada came, I thought, combing my hair. But what the gods will, no mortal can change—
My attendant burst into the room. "My lady! Lord Munesada is here!"
The comb slipped from my fingers. "What?"
"He came through the storm! He—"
But I'd already run past her for the door. I flew through the house, shoving past servants, and burst into the foyer.
"Good evening, Komachi."
A dripping Munesada offered a weary smile from the foyer bench. Beneath the towels draped over him, his silk robe and trousers were torn and covered in mud. One of his shoes was missing. His hat was gone, and his hair askew.
He pressed a cloth to his temple. Bright scarlet stained the white linen. Blood. Munesada was bleeding.
My breath caught. Then I was rushing to his side, screaming at the servants for hot water, bandages, salve, and, for the love of Heaven, to make haste.
Munesada chuckled. "You do care, Komachi."
"Of course I care, you stupid, stupid idiot! What were you thinking, going out on a night like this?"
He took my hand. "I made a promise, remember? Visit one hundred nights to prove my love. I can't have you believing that was a lie."
My heart stopped. This was my fault. Munesada could have died because of me. Because of my stupid challenge. My throat closed up, and I burst into tears.
"I'm sorry," I sobbed, sinking to my knees. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Through my weeping, I heard my father snort. "I apologize for what this worthless girl put you through. As far as I'm concerned, you've more than proved yourself. She's yours to do with as you wish, son." Then he barked to the servants, and they filed out, leaving me and Munesada alone.
"Komachi." Munesada's voice was soft. "Get up."
I rose but was too ashamed to meet his eyes. "Here," I said, reaching for a basin the servants had left. "Let me clean your wound—"
He caught me by the wrist. "Komachi, look at me."
I shook my head. But then he grasped my shoulders, turning me around. His fingers tilted my chin up, and all the air rushed from my lungs.
Love, pure and absolute, radiated from his dark eyes. His gaze spoke more clearly than words, more beautifully than a song. Its depths overwhelmed me, and I felt myself drowning.
Then to my astonishment, my heart fluttered.
I love him, too. Not as a friend or a brother. As a lover.
My cheeks flamed. I ducked my head, overwrought by the realization, but Munesada gently cupped my face and turned it toward his. "I will make you happy, Komachi. Let me."
It was more than a proposal. It was a promise. One he would never break. And I knew no other man alive could make me happier.
He pulled me close. I didn't protest. His arms wrapped around me. My body thrilled at his touch. Through his soaked clothes, his heart pounded in time with mine. I leaned into him, yearning to draw closer. "Munesada, I—"
Thunder struck, rattling the house to its foundation. The blast shattered my consciousness, and I shrieked, cowering against Munesada. He murmured soothingly, but I scarcely heard him over the blood roaring in my ears. The impact had been so close, as if the gods were raging over us.
My blood ran cold. The gods…
A second thunderbolt rocked the house. I shoved Munesada hard, breaking our embrace. The foyer lantern toppled, and as the light guttered out, I staggered back, terrified at having offended the powers above. Gods, no … don't forsake me …
"Komachi?"
Munesada stared through the semidarkness like an abandoned dog. My heart wrenched. His love was true. As was mine for him. The path with him would guarantee happiness.
An ordinary woman's happiness.
I fell prostrate, my forehead knocking against the planks. "Brother…" My throat was so
tight I could hardly get the word out. "Brother, please let me go."
What I was doing was wrong, dishonorable. I cringed, hating myself, wanting him to punish me for doing this to us both.
"Komachi." Munesada's voice faltered. "Am I not enough?"
His heart was broken. Mine bled inside me, too. But the heavens rumbled overhead, demanding that I choose. My love or my dream.
"Forgive me." Tears streamed down my cheeks to the floor. Outside the storm raged on, but it was nothing compared to the turmoil within. Why? Why must I choose? Why can't I have both?
"Hush." Munesada laid a hand on my back. His voice heavy with defeat, he said, "You win, Komachi. I never came tonight. Go to the palace. Make sure you become the poet you say you will." Then he withdrew his hand and left.
The next day, Kyoto buzzed with the news that Munesada had failed on his hundredth night.
A month later, I entered the Imperial Harem.
This is where I belong. I survey the palace's stately grounds, the Chinese artist painting by the koi pond, the councilors debating near the meeting hall, the Empress' retinue reciting classics beneath a blossoming tree. Had I not come, I would not be the poet I aspired to be.
And yet…
"Lady Komachi, look!"
My gaze follows Oku's pointing finger to see Munesada enter the garden. His son runs to him, and for a wild brief instant, I imagine myself with them, mother to that child, wife to that man I refused long ago. Even from a distance, I see the warmth they share, one I'll never know, and regret floods my heart.
"Lady Komachi," says Oku. "Do you ever wish things turned out differently with the Chamberlain?"
I tear my eyes from father and son and pick up a brush. "Of course not," I say, ignoring the ache in my chest. "I am Lady Ono-no-Komachi of the Imperial Court. And poetry is and has always been my one love."
Preview: Battery Brothers by Steven Carman
Coming March 2014
"Swing like you mean it, Andy," my brother Daniel encouraged me. "Pretend the ball's someone you hate."
Hate. I choked up on the stickball bat, thinking of our mother: The Bitch. Yeah, I said it. She was the reason the left side of my face was so messed up. She was the reason for a lot of my problems.
My cousin Craig spit on the blacktop and planted his gorilla-sized sneakers on the chalk-drawn pitcher's line. He stood about six-feet-two and was jacked. Me, I was just a regular-sized seventeen-year-old.
I took some tight half-swings. There was just enough chill in the early March air to cloud our breath.
Rubbing down the tennis ball, Craig smiled like the Grinch. "Two down, nobody on, 7-6—good guys."
If Daniel had been pitching in today's two-on-two, brothers-versus-brothers stickball game, our cousins Craig and Nathan wouldn't be an out away from victory. Chances are they wouldn't have scored any runs. My brother's 88 mile-per-hour heat would have done the job. But Daniel didn't pitch tennis balls. Not anymore. Not after being tagged a phenom and scouted by the pros. The risk of him throwing out his holier-than-holy arm at the age of sixteen was too great.
"Bring it," I muttered. My left eye twitched at the slap of a gust of wind. The pitch, smoking in high and tight, forced me to backpedal.
I grinned. "In the box?"
"Just missed." He scooped up the rebounding tennis ball. The pitcher, having the best view of the 32-by-24-inch box sprayed on the brick schoolyard wall, got final say on balls and strikes.
Daniel clapped. "Keep us alive. We need a big hit here." He put up his sweatshirt hood and rested his wiry body against the brick wall.
Craig raked his fingers through his brown crew cut, a hairstyle that made his broad forehead seem even bigger. My bangs hung to my eyebrows, always getting in the way. But I couldn't see myself in a crew cut. Ever.
Nathan, gawky and pimpled, got into fielding position, drumming his hands on his kneecaps. "Come on, come on. End the game here."
I wiggled my fingers around the wooden bat handle, trying to stay loose. "Don't pitch wild like that when I'm your catcher, Cuz."
"Andy, you gotta make varsity first." Craig bounced the tennis ball to himself in place. Last year, he'd pitched varsity as a junior.
I looked at the asphalt. "Whatever," I said.
Final cuts were tomorrow. A nerve-wracking way to start the week. I made varsity last year. But that was at my old school, with half the number of kids trying out.
Craig fooled me with an off-speed pitch. My weight forward, I swung under the ball and popped it straight up. Craig reeled it in.
Game over. A sucky loss to complement my sucky life. Which had only gotten suckier two months ago, when Dad, Daniel, and I moved 350 miles downstate to Collingwood, Long Island. We had little choice. Dad got canned. Couldn't find work. Unpaid bills stacked up and the bank foreclosed on our home.
I was struggling big time to adjust to my new surroundings. Especially at school. Upstate, the students knew me. They knew my face, the burn scar. It was a dead topic. Not down here. At Collingwood High, I was on people's radar, the opposite of where I wanted.
Nathan jogged in, his baggy sweatpants flogging in the wind. A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. "About time we took you guys down."
"Luck," I said, bumping my knuckles into his. Nathan reminded me a lot of myself. He too got the shaft in the DNA gene pool.
We packed up our stuff and piled into Craig's car. It reeked of feet. And judging by the rug, it appeared to have been involved in a flood at some point. At least it was a nicer ride than my junker.
Craig jammed the key into the ignition and cranked up the engine. "Where to, boys?"
"Wanna hit up 7-Eleven?" suggested Nathan.
"Let's do it," Daniel said, his long neck arched forward.
Craig blasted a rap song. The bass in the trunk kicked, rattling the mirrors. I stared out the window, the sprawling high school and its well-kept baseball fields fading into the distance against the backdrop of a low sun. We cruised past nice houses fronted by low-cut hedges and tall trees with swaying skeleton branches.
Craig pulled into the 7-Eleven parking lot, a bit heavy on the gas. Just before the curb, he jerked the car to a stop. His idea of fun, I guess.
I stepped out of the car, focused on my breathing. I was not a big fan of public settings.
As if my anxiety levels weren't sky-high already, Joey Owens exited the store as we approached. I cursed my luck. His fuse was short and he didn't like me. Not a good combination. Before tryouts on Friday, he punched a dent into his gym locker because he thought someone stole his glove. Turned out his glove was in his bag the entire time.
"Ladies," Joey said.
"S'up, big guy?" Craig asked.
Joey dished out high fives to Craig, Nathan and Daniel. Not that I expected one. He was above certain people. Or so he thought.
Joey had about twenty pounds on me. Was more ripped. A lot more. The school's best wrestler, he placed second at the state competition in the 165-pound division. Now that it was baseball season, he was trying his hand at that. Catcher, to be specific. Yep, same as me.
Joey hoisted his bag of groceries. "Eating whatever I want now that I don't have to make weight."
"Just don't turn into a fat ass," Craig said.
Joey laughed. "Your mom told me she likes me chubby. Actually, she said she likes my chubby."
Chuckles. Even from me. "Keep dreaming," Craig said.
"Hey, enjoy guys' day out." Joey winked. "Gotta go. Mandy's waiting." He gestured toward his car, a few parking spots over. A hot brunette fiddled with her seatbelt strap in the front seat.
"Got us there, bud," Craig said.
Eyes narrowed to slits, Joey pointed at me. "Walk with me."
I swallowed hard. This couldn't be good. But you didn't turn down guys like him. While Daniel, Nathan, and Craig entered the store, I followed him to his car.
Joey tossed his groceries into the backseat then slammed the door. He jabbed his finger at the meat of my chest.
"You telling people I suck at baseball?"
"No."
"Yeah? Craig says otherwise."
Something in my gut twisted. "I, uh, was just comparing us to Greg. Greg's really good."
"No, you suck. Got it? Just you."
"I didn't—"
Joey showed me his clenched fist. "Shut your face. You're lucky I'm cool with your family. That won't save you next time. Bank on it."
I opened my mouth, but rode my words down.
He climbed into his car and drove away. I looked up to the fleeting clouds and puked a little in my mouth. Damn you, Craig. Guess I had to watch what I said around my own cousin.
As I entered the store, people glanced at me and looked away. My face had that effect.
Two boys, twelvish, taste-tested flavors at the Slurpee machine. Each wore baggy pants at half-mast and a blue and gray Grovetown Wrestling jacket.
Craig walked up behind the kids, practically breathing down their necks. He growled, "Hurry it up, chumps." He could be a jerk sometimes. In fact, more often than not.
The boys twisted around. The larger one raised his eyebrows. "Screw off."
Craig's face flushed. "Whad'ya say to me?"
He stared Craig down and took a swig of Slurpee.
Craig slapped the bottom of his cup, popping the brim into his face.
The boy raked slush from his cheek. "Dick."
Daniel yanked Craig back. "Relax, tough guy."
The smaller kid set his cup next to the Slurpee machine. "Let's bounce," he said. Then he pointed at me and laughed like a seal as he shadowed his pal out the front door.
My heart sank. Stares I was used to, but a stranger hadn't blatantly mocked me like that in years. My day dove even lower into sucky status. Fast.
Nathan elbowed me. "Punks."
I swallowed past a lump in my throat, forced a smile and browsed a rack of potato chips. Emotions bottled up. Same old story.
We paid for our snacks and drinks and left.
Winter's Regret Page 13
