The walk back to Masato's abode rang with silence; no word was uttered, as if the air around us had become contaminated. Although we walked on flatter ground, my legs slid across the streets with heaviness. I had placed the photo into my pocket; my hands hung at my sides, grasping at the cool air that nightfall brought. My eyes kept drifting across the local plains and distant hills, though I can't say if I will remember the scenery by morning.
We had passed the village; the energy had rapidly died down under the orders of time.
"Are we heading to the Monastery or the Temple?"
A brief pause. Maybe I've spoken too early; still, I can't hold this act forever.
I look over my shoulder. Masato is a few steps behind, keeping pace—his gaze fixed on the road below us, his mind wandering above the stars, clearly lost in thought.
He hadn't heard my question.
"Do I need to find another ant colony?" I say it louder.
His body shifts slightly. His hands, which he had placed behind him, fell. The haze in his eyes cleared, and in fact his face twitched in annoyance.
"He's living by the Temple these days—he finds that nature eases his restlessness."
"Is it about the Larch tree?"
My mind shifts to the tall standing temple guardian near the foot of the hill. They are hard to come by in our region; locals often viewed the aging giant as a blessing from the heavens—though recently it has begun to wilt despite the prime of winter.
I receive no response. Masato is not one to believe in fortune telling, and ghosts hold no grudges against him—still, his father's concerns settle over his heir like sand in the wind.
The ascent had gone on in silence. Masato refused my help during our climb. I couldn't help but feel that it was defiance over whatever polluted his mind.
"I've already forgiven Palmer," I say before reaching the temple grounds—ensuring that I don't plant seeds of grudges into these sacred grounds.
"No, more like I have no choice," I say with a sigh.
As we reach the top, the view behind us is shadowed by nightfall—but the distant lamps appear like fireflies comforting the roots of heritage.
Though I have the privilege to be called a regular here in this imposing piece of heavenly red and golden architecture that never bends to shades of night, it never fails to haul my breath away.
Behind the main prayer hall, the ground rises higher into the sky. Oak stairs lead you to crystal clear waters, held by nature's design of dark green moss and smooth rocks. Seldomly have I been allowed up there, as it's preserved for meditation or finding answers clouded by human judgment—two separate ideas.
I notice a warm glow escaping from up there.
"We've moved all your papers and materials from my room to the main hall," Masato says from behind, his gaze following the glow above us. "It might be a while, so keep yourself occupied until I'm back with him."
He parts ways with me, though I don't immediately move on. I watch Masato as he gets on all fours—climbing his way up the hill. Hiroshi believes that these unfair exercises will help Masato work around his disability, hoping that he will be able to care for the Temple when Hiroshi has been called for new duties.
Once I am satisfied that he won't fall, I make my way towards the main hall—taking off my shoes before stepping on the wooden flooring. Though it was designed as a place of prayer, the shrines and monasteries are more prevalent among the locals; hence, Masato and I often sleep over in here without the concern of disrespecting the prayer grounds.
I collect my art supplies—deciding only on a simple pencil set and a pack of paper sheets, containing about a dozen or so—all wrapped up in worn string. I tuck the paper in between underneath my arm and the side of my chest. The hall fails to provide enough lighting; hence, I've decided to make my way to the kitchen.
From the entrance of the hall, I walk further away from the main path and towards the courtyard. Recently, a cypress tree had been cut down, leaving its enormous stump behind, holding a lamp that rests on it.
I look to my right, where a statue of a kitsune flashing 5 tails rests on ontop of a near-perfectly round rock. Though its posture is dignified, its eyes are rather judgmental, which is ridiculous considering it's colorless.
I begin my walk across the courtyard, for on the other side stands the kitchen—or rather, the Temple's café.
I note that the main light is on, so I won't have to scurry to the kitchen to find the generator, which is behind the dining area near the open entrance.
As I adjust my hold on the pack of paper, bringing it in tighter—and clamping my hand down harder against the container of pencils—I notice a figure walk across the inside dining room coming from the right side.
I halt abruptly, letting go of the pencil container.
The lighting is just enough for me to make out that the figure striding across the dining room is a woman—though I can't make out her face.
"Uhm…" I begin, not nearly loud enough for them to hear me.
I realize that she is shorter than I, so I tense my shoulders trying to place more authority within myself—she might just be one of the few that is staying over in the lodging area, and she appears young from her straight posture.
Still, why does the hair on my skin feel like it wants to rip away?
It's almost like I instantly got this alien feeling, a mixture of fear and awe. If she were a local, then surely I'd view this as a minor inconvenience.
She continues to stride across to the left of the dining room, slow and deliberate—elegant even—yet, even though I can't see her face, her steps seem sorrowful. Why does this feel so familiar?
Just before she reaches the exit, her last step is slow, and then she stops. She shifts in my direction…
I drop the pack of papers—no, I fall back straight onto the ground.
That pale skin, those cyan blue eyes, and that distant cold expression.
"You're that girl," I quiver out, my lips trembling, my body feels trapped in cement, and my heart wants to shatter.
She doesn't reply with words; instead, I notice her eyes now flow with tears running down her pale skin.
I watch it from below as the tear falls onto the ground—I look up, and the girl from my dreams no longer stands there.
I don't know how long I sat there, only that my mind retraced to the tunnels, to the dream of her that I've had time and time again, ever since… I scrunch my hands against the grass—its roots protesting as I pull it out of the ground.
I pick myself up, quickly gathering my things together—the grass had contracted most of the paper sheets with wet stains from condensation, leaving me only half of what I had.
I cautiously walk over to the dining room; my feet had been bare, so I wiped them on the welcome mat. Inwardly I knew she was no longer there.
I looked to the ground where her tears had fallen—where she had left her sorrows, but she had taken them with her—my doubts began to mock me, so I sat down by the servicing table, laying out all the surviving pencils and paper sheets—and I began to draw.
~*~
When I was eleven, I'd been asked to approach the front of the blackboard by my teacher to showcase my orientation project to the classroom; I had chosen local birds.
Our project dictated that we use cameras to capture our findings—but I had failed to find or even borrow one; hence, I went to a local park and spent a day drawing out a Russet sparrow, which had bathed within a bowl of water held out by a statue of a Widow.
At the time I hadn't grasped at the average drawing skill level of kids my age.
So when my teacher had me present it to the principal, I thought I was in trouble.
5 years later, that drawing of a Russet Sparrow on top of the Widow statue had earned me a friend.
I remember our conversation so vividly, even though back then it had been a rather sorry excuse for Japanese.
"Stranger, hello!"
She had awoken me from my daydreams, or rather Masato had quirked my chair from behind, for she had stood there for some time already.
"Uhm…" was all I could manage.
"The sparrow, at the entrance of the classroom!~"
"You mean the entrance of the school?" Masato questioned, not rudely—but it seemed he was more aware on helping her than I was.
"Yes! The Sparrow – is so beautiful! He was born when you were 11?"
Masato, again, answered for me—back then I was useless at conversations, useless at holding my own, but Masato's instinct to teach this girl overshadowed his usual nature.
"You mean, when he was 11, he drew the Sparrow?"
The foreigner nodded aggressively—she began giggling at her own mistakes, taking it all in by sheer stride.
"~ I've never seen such…" She stops, looks at her hands before making eye contact with Masato, expecting him to answer again.
"Such a talented young artist?" he said this slowly, though now he leaned forward, pinching my neck and trying to get me more involved.
The girl smiled at Masato, throwing a double thumbs up in his direction.
"Talent," she said with more aggressive nodding.
After that, all three of us met after school; we had driven inside a car, though I can't remember what type it was, but I'm sure Palmer would, as he had just gotten his license.
Back then driving around with both siblings had been rather…
Lively.
~*~
I can still remember how she smiled, how we all smiled.
It's these moments, which I am able to live in, these memories, that allow me to sketch, draw, or paint well.
It takes a moment for my mind to clear of the past; I focus on the page—and my breath hitches.
"Wow…" I say aloud to myself. It's not often that I am able to surprise myself—as usually everything I draw I'm immersed deeply within, but this…
I sketched her in black, grey, and white—yet when I blink for a brief moment—the page jumps out at me—with colors that threaten to escape, her complexion, her eyes, as Masato would say.
"Like an entity trapped within art." I say, remembering the morning, which now feels like years gone past.
Alison—her hair flows, though not in the same way as at the bridge, which had abided by the subtle afternoon theme; no, this captures her wild nature, which has grown on me time and time again.
Alison—her expression of lively curiosity that swirls within the texture and lines held by her eyes.
I wiped my brow with the back of my right wrist, a motion I did when I'd completed a drawing or painting.
It's rather amusing, though, as I haven't completed the lower portion from memory; I had only sketched her in front of the silver lining, the 'perfect moments,' she had said.
Considering how my hands aren't aching, it's likely I've only sketched for an hour—there aren't any clocks around to confirm this, as the Temple refutes clocks, believing them to be a distraction to those who spend the day here. Still, I hope that Masato will return with Hiroshi soon so that I may deliver the sketch before it's too late.
I'm aware that I can deliver it to Alison tomorrow; however, with the new semester, it may be difficult to have a moment with her due to all her friends, signing up for clubs, and other relevant activities.
It's hard to explain, but going to her residence—despite how high the moon rests—my heart recognized that it's something that I have to do.
~*~
It wasn't long after finishing the sketch that I heard mild voices approaching from the courtyard.
I dropped my pencil, having cleaned the shading I had done surrounding the silver lining within the sketch.
I placed my chair back neatly under the service table; you never know the mood that Hiroshi will be in at this time of the night.
I stepped out of the dining room, my eyes taking a few seconds to adjust from the lighting behind me. Luckily, the glowing lamp on top of the cypress stump made it easier for me, and their voices were loud enough for me to overhear their banter.
"…And that's why you should never trust an American woman. The fairy lady told me she was going to the loo; however, in a minute the manager came and said she was stuck through the window…"
"So she tried to get a free meal out of you."
"She would have gotten much more out of me had she stayed."
"Remind me how old you both were?"
"Well, let's see, that was back in '58, meaning I was 46 and she was about 60."
"No wonder she failed to get through the window."
"Sato, my boy, if only you knew the women of those days—you just can't find them anymore."
Masato snorts before waving his hand in greeting at me—his expression all the more relaxed than earlier.
"Did you hear that? My father was into older women."
I grin his way. "I'm grateful, else it would always be rowdy here."
I hear the old man snicker. "You see, Sato, my boy, Tashi here gets me."
I smile—that's Hiroshi for you; he may be old and frail, failing to say my name correctly, yet it doesn't bother me; I'm just relieved to see the old man this relaxed.
Masato waits for Hiroshi at the entrance, allowing him to enter first out of respect. He walks past—and though it's a dining area, he undoes his sandals.
He smiles at me, placing his hand on my shoulder.
"You brought money with you, Kakashi?"
"Only enough for one game," I say with a sigh.
His smile widens, and his grip on my shoulder tightens.
"Atta boy—you know how to entertain an evening. That brave spirit of yours will take you far."
Masato echoes from behind me, "—And drive you poor."
Masato sits down at one of the dining tables at the back of the room, the ones placed against the wall. He places his hand on his stiff leg, rubbing it slowly.
"Show me," he says, nodding over to the service table where my sketch lies.
"If it's done, of course," he says, shifting slightly to make his leg more comfortable.
I walk over to the service table, past Hiroshi, who is inspecting one of the wooden tables just before the service area, rubbing his thumb against a chipped corner.
"Those mites are at it again," he mutters—though I can't help but be perplexed at how termites could have chipped the wood in the way that it has been.
I pick up my sketch and navigate my way to Masato's table. I look back to see Hiroshi heading inside the kitchen—even though I respect the old man, I feel this sketch shouldn't be observed by him.
I lay it down on the table before sitting on the chair across from Masato—keeping my eyes on him and my ears perked on the kitchen.
Masato's face may be blank, but his eyes are drowning within the details of my drawing, grasping at the same feelings and emotions that I have so desperately poured into the illustration.
He is silent and still, dropping his bad leg onto the ground—using his hands to hold onto the table. Those were the only signs I got from him.
From the back, inside the kitchen, I could hear old man Hiroshi gathering the board and returning—gently I take back my sketch and hurry across the dining room to place it underneath the surviving paper sheets.
Although Masato said nothing, his silence was enough.
~*~
Some moments later, I found myself in a bit of a dire situation.
I'm reading the board before me with much discomfort—somehow both Blue and Red have claimed 18 of the 28 apartments, respectively—and all the properties on the homestretch are hotels. In order to bypass all these landmines, I need to roll a double 6 and then a 4, and that only if I roll a 5 on my second die; then I'm met with Masato's water park, which, if I land on it, will cost me 700 yen.
Masato notices my gaze landing on his water park, and he lets out a smile fit for a king.
"Would you like to visit the water park? The rides will cost you," he says with a cackle.
This double-crossing bastard and his father are no better.
"Say, Sato, my boy, how is your net worth holding?" He strokes his goatee, but his eyes have relit a flame that had been buried for years.
"Business has been good thanks to my kind and faithful contributor." He taps me on the shoulder, like I'm beneath him—slow and depriving taps.
"I'm up 2400 yen—and what about yourself, old man?"
The old man cackles, "Well, I'm…"
"Alright, enough…" I say, waving Masato's hand off my shoulder, looking back down onto the board.
I should just leave, but when you are sitting between an old man with a walking stick and Masato, who has somehow gotten ahold of one of my pencils—well, let's just say I'm hopeless.
Obviously, they're both in on this scheme of theirs.
I look back down helplessly at my only two apartments—both on Beggars Street, worth as much as a sack and cloth.
"You both are pitiful vermin," I say, taking the dice into my hands.
"Rich and pitiful vermin we are," Hiroshi sneers.
After the game, having emptied out my pockets, I had given Masato my art supplies, having told him that I planned to head over to Alison's place. He didn't question the time or why the sketch couldn't wait; he just took my art supplies with a nod—promising to put them away neatly for me after when he is done here at the dining room.
I had the sketch in hand, tucked under my arm, but before I could head off, Hiroshi had something to say.
"Let me walk you out, Tadashi, my boy." He places his hand on my shoulder, his other hand wrapped around his walking stick.
I nod my goodbyes to Masato, a silent confirmation that I'd meet him again tomorrow at the new semester; he returns it before disappearing away into the kitchen to prepare a meal for himself and Hiroshi.
Hiroshi and I step outside onto the courtyard, his hand never faltering on my shoulder.
As we reach the end, our pace slows—meditative even; he tightens his grip on my shoulder, slightly tugging at it, signaling for me to stop.
I turn around to face him—and his face…
That veil of concern has returned—the one that Masato had warned me about.
I don't dare utter a word, my back tensing as the air turns dense. He notices, looks down, adjusts his walking stick slightly, and leans against it.
"Masato said he saw a black cat today; he said it had scurried into the bushes near a bouquet shop."
Honestly, I was surprised to hear this—it was not what I was expecting—nor did I understand his premonition.
"Masato isn't one to use such events to foretell his fate."
The old man breathes a heavy sigh.
"Back when I was your age, I had the same stiff spine as the both of you." His eyes recall a time and day that I could never.
"However, I've grown up, and over time my spine has been battered with omens and truths that now…" He takes his hand off my shoulder, rubbing the other wrapped around his walking stick.
"Yoshi." He looks dead into my eyes; that stare is worth decades, and his stern voice commands me to listen.
"I've felt for some time that something is upon us that will test our wills and our views of life. I've meditated on this for hours and days on end. Listen to me when I say this." He places his hand back onto my shoulder, squeezing it tightly.
"We are not born to conquer alone. Warriors have always had a brotherhood, but at the end of the day, it's you who has to stare into the river—at that reflection—and answer to it all that you have done and what you will do tomorrow."
His words were heavy—enough for me to imagine myself by the river—one I could recognize, yet I failed to see my own reflection.
"I'm sorry—these things are not clear to me yet." I say with a hint of regret; the sincerity in his words were layered with urgency, but I felt as though my heart was naïve—innocent.
He nods—as if expecting my reaction.
"You must still fight your battles—only then will the river quench your thirst, but remember this: when you look into your reflection, you should recognize what looks back at you."
His words, which run deep like an ocean—although I'm no better than Masato at believing omens and such—still, I respect Hiroshi; he is somebody I look up to.
I nod with sincerity, taking a step back—though his hand never leaves my shoulder.
"I'll respect your warning, and I will take your advice to heart, though I must admit, it may be difficult for me to understand now."
He lets go of my shoulder; a small smile escapes him.
"You're a good kid, Takashi, better than most."
And with a bow, I took my leave, parting ways with haste as if the omen would grow feet and chase me down, but moreover, I felt the sketch beneath my arm had sharpened on the edges.
When I reach the bottom of the hill, I take one final glance at the wilting Larch tree, saying a silent prayer that it would heal—For all our sakes.