Prologue
Canadian spelling is used throughout.
Kagoshima, Kyushu, Japan 1543
The cool cast of the moon through the open window gave birth to creeping shadows that tugged at Izanami’s elegant form like a long, black cape. Padding softly into the bedroom on the balls of her bare feet, holding aloft a lit oil lamp, she let the mountain breeze part her evening robe and chill her skin; a greeting that made the fine hairs on her neck prickle. Out of habit she reached back and smoothed them into her neat, upswept bun - which yielded not a single oiled strand out of place. Her throat tightened as she laid eyes upon the lone form shrouded in blankets on the thin mattress. Setsuko…
Izanami crept closer, holding the lamp out in front of her, pouring its dim yellow glow over the younger woman’s sleeping form, and drank in all the details.
She was curled on her side, her face blank and peaceful on the soft cushion she used for a pillow. Wisps of fine, silky hair fell across her cheeks and brow, undulating over her porcelain skin like incense smoke. Her lips, flushed pink in youthful perfection, were full and plump. And striking down to shade Setsuko’s high cheekbones were long dark lashes, which fluttered like butterfly wings as she dreamed. Her slender fingers were splayed against the mattress, casting crane-wing shadows in the lamplight.
Izanami stared, unblinking at the sight. She soars, even when she sleeps. Izanami crouched down by the mattress, blocking the moonlight from the open window and creating a dark pocket between herself and the sleeping girl. She leaned down, bringing her face close to Setsuko’s, till she could feel the girl’s exhalations on her skin. Izanami opened her mouth wide and sucked it in. She let Setsuko’s breath fill her mouth and cascade into her throat before she swallowed it down. She could almost taste it - that which made this girl so beautiful. Izanami leaned closer, extending her tongue, greedy for more, when Setsuko stirred.
Izanami drew back, lowering her lamp. For a few seconds, it looked as though Setsuko would wake, but instead the younger woman kicked a little before snuggling back into her pillow.
Infuriated by the interruption and for nearly being caught, Izanami’s expression darkened. She raised a hand, tipped with pointed fingernails, to touch Setsuko’s perfect face. To probe and pierce. To see if she could fracture the beautiful visage before her, even for a moment, and reveal whether Setsuko’s blood ran red. Wretched girl. You do not deserve this gift.
But she stopped herself. She caught sight of her hand. Her knuckles bloomed like skeletal roses sitting atop a garden of teal veins and white tendons, all held under a layer of translucent skin. So many flaws.
Izanami wrangled the thunderclouds brewing in her breast with chains of iron will. Not now, she thought. Not yet.
She rose and departed the room, wrapping her robe around herself as the moon cast its silver light on her back, hiding her shadows from view.
✽✽✽
Love
Setsuko was transfixed, as she always was, by the burning halo from the setting sun as it shone through the leafy curtain of her apple tree. Gentle currents borne from the tops of the surrounding mountains made the branches rustle, creating a shifting kaleidoscope of movement. The slivers of sunset danced across her porcelain skin like orange petals borne on the wind.
As she stared intently at each waving limb of her apple tree, Setsuko moved her hand in precise measured strokes, using the tips of her fingers to guide the brush. With every application of ink to canvas, she wondered if her brush would bring the painting to life. Would it be the same as what she could perceive? Or was there more, beyond what she could experience with her senses? Would it be alive only with the final stroke to canvas? Her apple tree jostled in the breeze, its leaves constantly in motion, never the same from one moment to the next. Setsuko knew that when she was finished, every long streak would be nothing more than a composite collection of impressions. A picture made from her memory of the movement, containing no more truth than the blur formed by a hummingbird’s wings. If that was the case, then Setsuko wondered what other lies her brush could paint for her.
During the pause between one stroke and the next, she sought some reflection on a question she already knew the answer to. “Do you believe that ghosts live in apple trees?”
The answer came in the form of an exasperated sigh from across the room. Reiko clicked her teeth together in annoyance as she mumbled to herself. Her long black hair swayed as she turned to and fro. Hers was not the calm motion of Setsuko’s beloved tree. “It must be here, somewhere! I know I put it…”
By Setsuko’s measure, her companion was like a spinning top. She buried a grin behind her palm. “Under the stool?”
The older girl made a noise of satisfaction as she pulled the box out from under the stool. “Ha!” She whirled toward Setsuko with a triumphant smile, which quickly turned to laughter. “Oh! Setsuko, look what you did to your face!”
Setsuko realized too late that she had put her ink-stained fingers on her mouth. Her eyebrows shot up.
Reiko pointed and laughed. “You look like your father!”
Indeed, Setsuko had created an impression of a moustache and beard around her lips. Mortified, she jumped off her painter’s chair and started to run from the room.
The older girl dashed in front of her in a blur of crimson and cream, intercepting Setsuko before she could flee. “Wait!” Reiko caught her by the shoulders. “You know you can’t run through the halls looking like that!”
Setsuko froze and made a noise of frustration. Of course, she’d gone and acted without thinking again. Impulsiveness was not an admired quality in a woman of noble birth. Her father would not be proud. But then, there was little chance he would see her in her present state, given his condition. It caused a pang in her heart to think of it, but she knew he would want her to maintain a composed front at all times. She turned and slunk back to her chair. “You saved me again! I don’t know what I would do without you to watch over me, onēsan!”
Reiko’s face fell, and her dark brows knitted together. “You know you shouldn’t call me that, Setsuko,” she said.
The admonishment stung. Setsuko’s face went red with embarrassment. Seeing this, Reiko offered her a polite smile, the same one she gave whenever the subject of their class was brought up. Setsuko knew it meant that even though they did not share blood, their bond was strong nonetheless. Reiko was the daughter of a farmer, while Setsuko’s father was none other than Daimyō Ishiguro himself.
As the ruler of his small province, Ishiguro was fairly wealthy, though his holdings were smaller than those of the other daimyō. With many of the other daimyō fighting amongst themselves to see who could amass the greatest land, titles and vassals, Ishiguro’s failing health had prevented him from making any moves to increase his holdings. As such, they’d relied on their small mountain-top castle, well-trained force of samurai, and relative obscurity, to keep any hungry prospects at bay. Ishiguro had ensured that the potential cost of acquiring their assets would be too high for any other daimyō; the amount of resources they would have to spend to combat his forces in such a remote location made any takeover impractical. It was the best way he had of protecting his sole offspring.
Setsuko moved to clean her face with her sleeve.
“No, no,” Reiko tutted gently, substituting the sleeve for a matching handkerchief she pulled from her pocket, “let me do it.” She quickly went to work, wiping the ink away and staining the edge of her own kimono in the process.
Setsuko gazed back at the taller girl, noting the freckles that dusted her nose and cheeks. Ichi, ni, san, shi, go, roku…
“Stop counting my spots,” Reiko said, “I can see your lips moving.”
Setsuko clamped her lips together into a pout. “I was not.”
“Yes you were. Now hold still, I’m almost done.”
Through the open balcony behind them, the warm summer wind brought the sweet scent of cherry blossoms and white chrysanthemums from the gardens in under the canopy. Setsuko watched the breeze swirl a few errant petals around the blood-red pillars set in the rich honey-coloured wood floor. In all the artwork she’d seen depicting the elements, Setsuko had never found one that could capture the playful nature of the wind. It was either portrayed as ferocious and swift, like the squalls that sank ships, or too soft and serene to dislodge even a raindrop from its perch on a leaf. Setsuko resolved to reveal the duality of the Sakurajima Mountain wind with her next painting, but only after she was finished with the apple tree.
“There,” Reiko announced, her face beaming like a mother tiger who’d just cleaned her cub. “All better.”
Setsuko touched her mouth. Both it and her hands were now clean, whereas the edges of Reiko’s cream sleeves were smudged with black. She dipped her head in embarrassment. Surely she could have cleaned her own face. Or not stained it in the first place. Acting like a girl instead of a woman. “You take such good care of me. You honour me with your service.”
Reiko put her hands on her hips and puffed out her cheeks. “If I weren’t here, you’d walk around all day with ink on your face. What kind of daimyō’s daughter would that make you, hmm?”
Setsuko gave her a wounded look. “Mother didn’t mind so much,” she said. She immediately regretted it, as the words brought a heaviness to her heart and a tightness to her throat.
Reiko knelt before Setsuko, tucking her faded red kimono under her legs. She placed a burgundy lacquered box she’d retrieved earlier in front of her, opened it and took out a delicate pair of earrings composed of thumbnail-sized baskets of woven gold that encased two jade pearls.
Setsuko recognized them immediately as her mother’s favourite pair. She’d worn them often but had taken them off as her condition deteriorated and left her confined to bed. Setsuko hadn’t seen them since her mother had passed more than a year ago. “Reiko,” Setsuko whispered, her eyes brimming with tears, “where did you find these?”
The older girl pulled a silk square which had been tucked inside the sash binding her kimono. She reached up and gently pressed the silk over Setsuko’s lips, shushing her. Reiko folded the cloth over with her long white fingers and dabbed the wetness from Setsuko’s cheeks. “There,” Reiko said with a warm smile. “Now you look like your mother’s daughter. We can’t have you wearing your mother’s earrings with tears in your eyes, now can we?”
Setsuko sniffed and nodded. Reiko always knew what to say.
“She told me to keep these for her,” she continued, “and give them to you when you were old enough to marry.”
Setsuko placed an earring in each palm and offered one to Reiko, “I want you to have this.”
Reiko’s jaw dropped. “I couldn’t!”
But the younger girl wouldn’t let it go. She went over to her dresser, opened a drawer and pulled a piece of thread out. Reiko always kept some in there to make quick repairs to Setsuko’s clothes. Setsuko looped a piece of heavy thread around each earring and tied the ends of both. Then she turned and offered one again. “I want you to keep one for me. You know how I’m always losing things. Would you, please? You can wear it as a necklace and hide it under your clothes so no one will see. I’ll do the same, and it’ll be just you and me who will know.” She offered Reiko her best smile.
As she thought it over, the older girl squeezed the ends of her fingers, raised her hands and dropped them again. Setsuko gently lowered the necklace into Reiko’s sweating palms. Reiko’s eyes welled, and she smiled back. She slipped it over her neck, hiding the thread with her hair and tucking the earring beneath her kimono.
Setsuko did the same. She tucked her piece into the folds of her kimono, then reached over and hugged Reiko. They both patted their chests and shared a giggle. Reiko moved to stretch her legs, and the earring’s pointed stem got stuck and made her wince. She went to peek inside and adjust it when Setsuko stopped her. “Don’t let anyone see it!”
Reiko made a sound of indignation. “Of course not!” A beat. “Like who?”
“Izanami-san.”
Reiko’s brows knitted together at the mention of the name. She held Setsuko’s hands and folded hers on top of them. “Look at me,” she said. “You mustn’t concern yourself with her.”
“I only worry about you,” Setsuko replied, “I see the way she watches you. She’s planning something.”
Reiko squeezed Setsuko’s hands. “You mustn’t say things like that. She has eyes in the shadows. The walls will whisper in her ear all that you hold close to your heart. It wasn’t this way when your mother was alive. If she hadn’t gotten sick, then your father never would have brought that deceitful geisha into our lives.”
Before Setsuko could reply, they heard a voice which made their backs stiffen.
“Musume,” Izanami’s tall, elegant form cast a long silky shadow through the translucent shoji - sliding paper door. Reiko shut the lacquered box and shoved it behind her while Setsuko straightened up in her stool and drained her face of all expression.
The shoji opened a few inches, allowing them both a glimpse of the alabaster-skinned beauty behind it. Her wide dark eyes were extended by a carefully applied arch of black liner, accented by a widening flush of akaibara rose. Her nose was meticulously powdered to give it contour so that it would not appear as flat as it was. The rest of her countenance was hidden by her gold and ivory silk folding fan. She slid the shoji open a little farther. “Are you two whispering to each other again?” Her voice was as smooth as the patterned silk kimono she wore and yet as direct as her gaze, which fell immediately on Reiko’s stained sleeves. Her eyes narrowed.
Reiko was the first to answer. “Just gossiping about the handsome samurai, okugata-sama,” she said, hoping that appealing to Izanami’s sizeable ego with the “Lady of the House” title would sway her into ignoring the stained kimono.
This made Izanami’s lips peel back, revealing a lacquered black smile. For her, any standard that set her above the masses was one worth adopting. The dyeing of teeth, known as ohaguro, was only practiced among the aristocrats and was considered a mark of beauty.
“The samurai are deadly warriors,” she said, gliding into the room, “worthy of your respect. They believe themselves to keepers of the virtue, possessing both honour and loyalty. While they protect us, and keep us safe, you must never forget that when the sun sets that they are only men,” Izanami’s tone darkened, and she snapped her fan shut, “and they do not become samurai again until the dawn.”
She cast an icy stare at Setsuko, which made her stomach tighten. “But you needn’t worry. I will always keep an eye on you.”
The girl nodded.
Izanami started to walk around the edge of the balcony; the sun and wind seemed to welcome her by caressing her form with their essence.
Setsuko held her breath. Truly, she was a sight to behold. Her graceful, measured footsteps, perfect balance and elegant arch of her neck betrayed her roots as a geisha. Even her expressions seemed painted upon her flawless countenance, like a Noh mask that never slipped; ever placid, silently mocking. Izanami spread her fan with a delicate touch, as though she were stroking the scales of a dragon. Setsuko watched Izanami’s lashes bend as the curved swathe of silk wafted to and fro.
Setsuko had always found her to be a little unnerving, the empty look in her eyes offset by the allure of her wide smile. There was a stillness to her, a kind of sadness that Setsuko sensed but could never quite explain. As if all the colours of the world had somehow faded for Izanami. To Setsuko, Izanami’s every movement seemed to be a performance, as though she were hypnotizing her audience with her grace, while hiding an ocean’s tide of tragedy behind her downturned lips.
Izanami had come into their lives not long after Setsuko’s mother had passed. Depressed and consumed by despair brought on by grief, Ishiguro had brought the prized geisha in to lift his spirits and bring life to the house once more. By all accounts, she had been successful, as Setsuko’s father had grown rather relaxed around her. Of course, that had been before he’d fallen ill. Izanami had taken it upon herself to become absolutely indispensable to Ishiguro’s care. Setsuko had seen her speaking with the herbalists on how best to assist him. But Izanami’s efforts had seemed in vain, as Ishiguro’s illness worsened rapidly. Izanami had ordered Setsuko to stay away, lest she contract the same sickness. Reiko had warned Setsuko that there were whispers behind closed shoji that Izanami was the source of the sickness. But no matter what was said, Izanami never lost her composure. Even now, she was the paragon of poise, framed by the hanging branches of the distant apple tree, untouchable.
“Do you see them?” Izanami gazed at something happening in the stone courtyard below. She gestured for them to come closer.
Both Setsuko and Reiko rose.
“Not you, servant,” Izanami pronounced, which made Reiko freeze, “just the musume of the house.”
From the corner of her eye, Setsuko saw Reiko’s cheeks flush with humiliation. She had never treated the older girl that way and neither did the members of the house. Reiko dipped her chin to her chest and cast her eyes downward, before sinking back to the floor. Setsuko looked up at Izanami, who held out an expectant, outstretched hand. Setsuko’s eyes narrowed as she realized what Izanami had called her. I am not your daughter, Setsuko thought, as she made her way over. She drew herself closer to the woman and followed her gaze out to the courtyard.
Izanami looked down at her with what appeared to be an expression of bemusement. “You have a painter’s eye. Tell me, what do you see?”
From her vantage point in one of the crimson pagodas surrounding the white stone courtyard, Setsuko could see that all of her father’s men had sat down around the edge of a large bamboo-lined square filled with sand and gravel. Cool breeze from the green hills beneath the castle made their earth-tone kimonos ruffle as they sat around the bamboo square. A samurai crouched at the center of the square, hand at his side, thumb on the tsuba - the guard of his katana - ready to draw. Three others took position around him, approaching from the corners of the square.
“Takeshi has initiated a jiyu-kumite. But why?”
Izanami’s mouth curved upward. “I’m surprised you know the term. A free-form sparring match is the best way for everyone to witness the breadth of his skill. Since he’s been appointed to the prime position as Captain of the Guard, some of your father’s old guard have made it known that they do not approve. He seeks to make an example of them.”
Setsuko noticed the way Izanami’s eyes widened as she drank in the sight of him. The geisha’s fingers traced lines up the sides of her thighs.
“Come,” Izanami whispered, “let’s take a closer look.”
✽✽✽
