Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. Best viewed with story width in 1/2 format. © Kure Yuki & KOEI Co.
Note: Second multi-chaptered story under revision. I chose this before the other two because it will only have a few chapters. At this point, no name dropping who's who, but it's pretty obvious who's who.
CHAPTER ONE
HEIRLOOM
# # #
SHE STOOD, QUITE PROUD, in front of the whole class, watching every expression on her classmates' faces. It seemed that the fruit of her accidental discovery was something everybody liked so far, but the most important person she'd like to share her little treasure with was two blocks away from school. No matter, in a few minutes, she'll be able to see her again.
The melody coming from the small box next to her finally stopped. At exactly the same moment, the bell rang to signal the end of classes. Her small hands immediately closed the lid, and she went back to her chair to place the box safely inside her bag.
"Alright then," called the teacher in front. "That ends our Show and Tell for today."
"But what about me?" whined one of the kids in front, holding up and shaking what looked like a toy truck.
"Those that did not get their turn for today's Show and Tell can have their turn tomorrow," the teacher said kindly. "Just remember to bring them again."
"Hai, sensei," every student in the room said.
The little kids hurriedly filed out the room, eager to meet whoever came to fetch them, but not her. Looking out the window, she knew that no one was going to pick her up because she told them so. When the sun was still up, shading the whole city with a warm golden glow, she knew that her path will be guided, and that her parents should not worry a thing. She heaved her pink backpack on, and left school.
Walking the first block was easy. She had schoolmates and their guardians to walk with, and they were always happy to tag her along. On the second block, she was fortunate enough to be escorted by a couple of office ladies who just got off from work. They seemed really keen on helping her across the street. She waved at them before finally reaching her destination.
The building standing not far from her was huge and has lots of floors. A smile crept across her face as her feet marched forward. When she got to the door, she tried her best to push it open till she was saved from struggling further by a doctor who saw her from inside. Slightly embarrassed by this, she gave her deepest gratitude and proceeded to skip through the hallways, sending her cherry red hair—in pigtails—to bounce along with her.
Out on the street, people look at her as if she's lost and helpless or, on some cases, she ran away from home because of how small she was and with that backpack clinging on her; but in here, in the hospital, no one seemed to mind that she was alone. On the contrary, the staffs of the hospital are used to seeing her, a mere ten-year-old girl, coming in, and heading to a direction she knew from her many visits.
The steps her feet made against the squeaky clean floor came to a halt when she was finally facing the room she intended to visit. She straightened out her skirt before turning the knob.
Popping her head inside the room, she said jovially, "Obaasan!"
On the bed, smiling at her cheerful remark, was an old lady with long hair—a beautiful blend of faded red and silver white—braided loosely on one side. She beamed back, and crossed the room towards the elder, shaking her bag off her back and placing it on the floor. She then took the seat next to the bed where she gave her grandmother a quick peck on the cheek as a proper greeting.
"How was your day?" the grandmother started, studying her pigtails.
"Super!" she thrilled, legs swaying. "You?"
"Just fine," said the grandmother. "How super was your day?"
"Very!" She beamed. "Because everybody liked what I brought for Show and Tell today."
"What did you brought for Show and Tell today?"
She immediately leaped off her seat, and crouched down next to her bag. Her little hands rummaged through her things, and successfully pulled out the music box that was the centre of attention just a few minutes ago in her class. She handed it carefully to her grandmother who, after holding the wooden box for a few seconds, grabbed her glasses on the bedside table so she could scan the intricate carvings done on it.
"Isn't it pretty?" said the little girl, hopping back on her seat, and looking at her grandmother for any hint of special reaction for the box.
"Yes," the grandmother answered, still taking in the superb xylography of the box in every angle possible. "Where did you get it?"
"We found it last night," she said happily. "Me and okasan."
"Where exactly?"
"Up in the attic."
"Hmm," contemplated the grandmother.
The little girl's mouth made a tiny frown, slightly worried at what her grandmother's opinion about the music box would be. "What's the matter, obaasan? Don't you think it's pretty?"
The elder shook her head, and said in a tender voice, "I think it's very pretty . . . but I also think that the music inside it is prettier."
"It is!" the little girl squeaked. "Listen to it, obaasan."
She watched as her grandmother cranked the small handle on the side of the box, and lifted the lid with her wrinkled fingers. The soft but high-pitched notes came instantly from the little revolving contraption in the middle, sending both her and her grandmother to listen closely and quietly at the melody flowing out of the box.
"It's so beautiful," commented the little girl, slowly swaying her legs in time with the melody.
"It was always beautiful . . . Ave Maria. . . ." said the grandmother softly.
"Ave Maria?" she repeated, turning to her grandmother. "Who's—" She wanted to finish her question but she just couldn't. Not when she noticed a lone tear running down her grandmother's cheek. "Obaasan, why are you crying?"
"Oh," said the grandmother, slightly stunned. "This is nothing."
But the little girl did not listen, and chose to act on instinct at once. She hopped off from her chair, rushed towards the bedside table to grab the tissue box, and climbed on the edge of her grandmother's bed, hastily offering her some to dry her tears with.
"Here," the little girl mumbled, frowning at her grandmother as she took a few. "Are you hurt? Should I push the button?" She eyed the small switch next to the pillow.
"No," said the grandmother a bit weary. "I'm fine."
"But—"
The elder leaned forward, cupping her granddaughter's face. "I'm not hurt . . . physically. Don't worry about me."
"Okay. . . ." said the little girl, the frown on her lips partially disappearing.
"Tell you what," she said, noticing the untidy pigtails. "Why don't you let your obaasan fix that hair of yours?"
Nodding obediently, the little girl handed the tissue box over to be placed back on the bedside table, and pulled the rest of her up on the bed, occupying a small portion. Before crossing her legs, she made sure that her back was facing her grandmother. Then she heard the familiar clatter from the bedside table as the elastics left her hair. With her locks hanging freely around her shoulder, she felt the tiny teeth of her grandmother's brush against her scalp.
"How's your violin playing coming along?" asked the grandmother.
"It's okay," she answered. "But I'm not that good yet."
"Give it time," said the grandmother, sectioning her hair in two. "Practise every chance you get."
"Will that work?" she mused, looking over her shoulder. "Will I be as good as obaasan?"
The grandmother had to let go of her hair. "Of course it will." She nodded. "But you have to remember that your obaasan was not that good."
"Not good?" The little girl tilted her head a bit in uncertainty. "But otosan said you were very good."
"You're otosan can get carried away with his words sometimes," the grandmother chortled.
Her mouth emitted a low hum, accepting the old lady's words even though she knew, and believed that what her father told her was the truth: That her grandmother was a truly brilliant former violinist. But whenever she mentioned this fact to her, her grandmother would try and cover it up or change the subject; and the little girl was afraid that if she pressed on the matter, she could end up upsetting her—the one thing she didn't want to happen, not with her present condition.
As her grandmother put her hair back in a neat set of pigtails, her eyes wandered around the stark white walls of the ward, feeling somewhat sorry for how boring it must have been for the elder to spend two months trapped in this very plain room. Just by looking around made her throat warm from emotions, and her eyes moist.
"There," said the grandmother, snapping her out of her thoughts. "I'm done."
She quickly brushed her arm across her eyes before turning to look at her grandmother. "Thank you, obaasan."
"You're welcome," she said. "Hn . . . what's wrong?"
She shook her head at the question, directing her eyes at something else rather than her grandmother's eyes. Then she saw the music box next to her. She picked it up, placed it on her folded legs, and just stared down at it.
"Ne, obaasan," she started, keeping her voice solid. "Who do you think would not want something like this anymore?"
"Maybe someone who has a strong attachment to it," said the grandmother.
"Huh?" said the little girl, confused. "But if someone wants this, then why throw it away?"
"Well, for start, it wasn't thrown away," the grandmother said, picking up the box once more. "You found it with your okasan in the attic, right? So it wasn't completely thrown away. . . . It was just hidden for a very long time."
She was not aware that her face was now making deep creases on her forehead, and was scrunched up in such a state that she needed to hear her grandmother give an amused laugh before she could stop herself from making such a face. She pouted at her grandmother for a silent protest.
The elder smiled at her, and said, "I guess I should tell you, then."
"Tell me what?"
"The secret."
"The secret?"
"Yes, the secret . . ." her grandmother moved closer to her, and continued, "and reason as to why this music box was hidden for so long."
The little girl gasped, and said in a hushed voice, "You're really going to tell me?"
The elder nodded, and then raised her hand. "But first, I want you to promise me that you'll keep this secret between us." Her wrinkled fingers all clenched up except for the pinky.
This was a gesture the little girl understood very clearly, and knew exactly what to do in return. She lifted her arm, and held her hand the same manner her grandmother did. Linking her pinky with her grandmother's pinky, they shook and chanted the words she had been taught years ago, sealing the promise altogether.
"This music box," the grandmother began, the small wooden box sitting on her palm, "was a birthday gift to a princess."
"A princess!" the little girl squealed, fists shaking merrily next to her cheeks. "Was she pretty?"
"Oh, she was a very pretty young girl—as pretty as you." The grandmother smiled affectionately at her granddaughter, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "You even share the same hair colour."
"Wow. . . . Did she wear pretty dresses, too?"
"She did but only on special occasions," said the grandmother. "Most of the time, the princess wore hakama and boots."
"But I thought you said she was a princess," countered the little girl. "Not a priestess."
"I did say that," the grandmother agreed, chuckling at her granddaughter's sharp mind. "But during her time, wearing hakama and boots were the trend for young ladies in her position."
"Oh. . . . Okay."
"And like any princess, she was educated of all the knowledge she had to know. Whether it was traditional like tea ceremony and flower arrangement or foreign etiquette and languages, she had to know them all without any questions."
The glow on the little girl's face vanished. Her tiny brows knitted in sadness. "Being a princess doesn't sound so fun anymore."
"It's a lot of work, that's for sure," added the grandmother, noting her reaction. "But she found something that she really loved that made all those stress from learning too much go away."
"Really?" The little girl said. "What was it?"
"Music."
At the very word, the little girl took notice of the wide smile that slowly came to her grandmother's face. There was something about it that instantly uplifted her spirits; and she decided she had to ask more to keep her grandmother's mood this pleasant.
"Did she play any instrument?"
"Oh yes, she did," answered the grandmother. "She played the piano when she was about your age . . . then she stopped when she turned seventeen."
"Why?" The little girl frowned. "Didn't she like music anymore?"
"No," said the grandmother, shaking her head. "It's because she wanted to learn something new about music. She wanted to learn to play another instrument."
"Oh," she replied. "What did she learn next?"
The grandmother gave her a gentle smile, and said, "Violin."
The little girl, once again, had her fists trembling slightly under her chin from happiness. "Like me?" she squealed, pointing her forefinger almost at the tip of her nose.
"Yes," confirmed the grandmother. "And just like you, she was not that good at first."
"I see. . . ." she said. She went quiet for a few seconds, her thoughts jumping from one fairytale book to another. After her brief mind wandering, she smiled and started, "If she was a princess," her voice a bit higher than her normal pitch, "then she must have a prince charming!"
The grandmother looked at her in disbelief, and said sternly, "I have no idea that kids today think way ahead for their age."
"I'm sorry," the little girl said quickly, very alarmed at how strict her grandmother's voice had become. "I was just—"
Her grandmother gave a weary laugh, "Gotcha!"
"No fair!"
"Just because you're my sweet little magomusume doesn't mean I can't pull a prank or two on you," said the grandmother, pinching her cheeks playfully.
"Okay, okay," she said, holding her grandmother's wrists. "That means . . ."
"Yes, she did have a prince . . ." the grandmother trailed off, suddenly looking at the doorway.
Curious at this oddity, the little girl turned around, and placed her gaze at where her grandmother was staring at. Somehow, the door was opened, and they could see the deserted hallway beyond it.
"Obaasan?" said the little girl, inching away from the bed. "Should I close the door?"
"W-what?" stuttered the grandmother.
"The door," she pointed towards it, her feet already on the floor. "Should I?"
"Oh, right—go ahead."
She made her way to the doorway, poked her head out the room expecting to see someone, but it was just the hallway that greeted her. Shrugging, she grabbed the doorknob, and closed the door behind her, hurrying back to her grandmother's bed.
"Where was I?" said the grandmother as she got back to her small space on the mattress.
"The prince charming," answered the little girl at once.
"Ah, yes. The prince," the grandmother said sagely. "She did have a prince, but as for the charming part . . . he wasn't so charming at first."
"Not a prince charming?" her voice sounded sceptical. "What kind of prince is that?"
The grandmother sighed. "Well, I guess it's time I tell you the whole secret. But we have to start in the same manner you start a fairytale."
"Why?"
"Because we're dealing with a princess and a prince here, remember?" the grandmother said. "Would you like to do the honour?"
The little girl straightened her back, inhaled deeply, and with a voice lower than before, she said formally, "Once upon a time, there was a princess . . ." She gave her grandmother a polite nod to continue on, raising her eyebrows in anticipation.
"Who looked exactly like you," continued the grandmother. "She had bright amber eyes and striking red hair and—"
"Obaasan," interrupted the little girl. "You forgot something."
"Did I?"
"You haven't mentioned the princess's name yet," said the little girl curiously. "What was her name?"
"Her name . . ." repeated the grandmother slowly. "Her name was . . ."
Note: Alright, then. As I've mentioned before, this is rewritten. Did a bit of tweaking here and there. Thank you again for reading.
12.07.10