La Renaissance
satirical
---
I met him on the lake. He stood knee-deep in it, wearing expensive silk trousers, the tips of his hair skimming the surface of the clear, dark water. He stared into the water as if entranced, his brow knitted, his nostrils flaring and relaxing as he breathed.
"Would you like some help?" I asked him, drifting by on the tiny boat I'd rented from the marine shop.
"No." His reply was curt, a low growl.
Lifting my oars out of the lake, I dallied in the shade of the deeper water. My attention drifted from the yawning landscape about me to him—a white figure, standing motionless as a pillar of marble. Idly curious, I lingered far longer than I expected to; I was amazed at how he stood, waiting and immobile, something as natural and still as a birch tree, or a mountain protruding from the lake. At last I decided to leave the man standing as he was—stone-stiff, as though no care could rouse him. Ironically, after I pulled away, my paddles skimming the soft clean lake the short distance back to shore, he moved.
In a dipping stroke, so fast it resembled a gold-violet blur in the afternoon sun, he reached into the water and pulled out a long rope of ivy and metal cord, heavy enough to sink down to the lake floor, light enough to have drifted under the water for days, like a scuttling crab—a gliding eel.
He pulled the cord out of the water, hefting the rope into his hands, winding it about his wet sleeves, gripping it in his dripping palms. Then he started retreating toward the shore, gritting his teeth, sweating, silently pulling the taut rope from the lake.
By now, I had stepped onto the dock and secured my little boat. There I gazed back at him pulling the cord out of the water, stepping arduous back toward shore, his body angled at such a degree that, if he wished, he could've tip his head back to see his destination. And his hair, his pristine, white hair—so long it resembled nothing so much as a silk screen—was trailing in the water, lit all-colors by the disappearing sun and lake reflections.
His objective emerged with each excruciating reposition. At first the surface of the water began to shift, turning dark with the cord's disturbance. Then what he was pulling began to ascend out of the lake to meet the man.
Dirty, matted fir. Soil washed away by the water.
By the time the drenched man reached shore, pale with exertion, it became apparent what it was. He had been wrenching a massive dog—or, rather, the corpse of a massive dog—out from where the walls of sand had encased it. He pulled the limp corpse halfway out of the lapping water until, reaching the shore, he slumped down and let the rope fall out of his hands.
Then he stared at the carcass, stared in calm anguish as though it were his soul lying there, bloated and lifeless, half submerged by the lake.
---
This morning, I woke at my leisure. In the endlessly bright sky, a sliver of cloud sprawled, the wispy false start of an intentioned storm. The cottage is small and sweet, like bluebells.
I wasn't convinced at first, but now I think this respite will do me good.
That man—Sesshoumaru—buried his dog yesterday. He had been to town last week, and his brother, in his haste to go back to Tokyo, left the cabin five days early and forgot to care for the dog. It was an accident that the animal died, either that or an example of blatant negligence. Nonetheless, Kagura told me he won't press charges. There's some family secrets long buried between those two that will remain hidden for now, she said.
The doctor comes by every three days to check on my recovery. I wouldn't care to enumerate everything he examines, since he stays for two hours or more regardless of my condition. I believe I am doing well, since I was able to row on the lake for an hour and a half that last time. Still, Dr. Suikotsu was apprehensive of a repeat outing, and told me to walk no further than the lodge on good days, and no further than the gardens if I'm feeling weak.
There are vines crawling up the trellis outside, lovely big-leafed vines that sprout little yellow and white flowers in the spring. That's what Kagura tells me, because she's stayed in the cottage herself a few times.
This year, she's spending a little more to live in the lodge; "more people, more thrill." I'm glad it takes twenty minutes to get from here to the lodge; the sounds of their midnight revelry are dampened by the trees and gates between all those cheerful, lively people and myself. Here, I can rest in peace.
---
It's no surprise death has been on my mind lately. After the experience I've had, it can't surprise anyone that I think about death.
What would have happened if I had died?
To be restored to the living, back into a cherishing family circle, a renewal of old friendships, and the arms of love—that's something worth celebrating. Is there any other happiness to be found when you've beaten death? But, for all intents and purposes, it seems I have already passed away from my old life—and with that death went all the love of my family and the company of my friends. They were dumbfounded, every single one of them, when I emerged from the illness still lucid; or, at least, I know I'm still lucid—they seem to have a hard time believing it.
To come back to a world where you've been declared legally dead for seven months is to be reborn into a new life; where was I to fit in among all the old places now—where was a half-mad invalid to go? What was she to do?
When my body gave up on me, so did the Kikyou of that old life. Without the people I once was surrounded by, the house I once lived in, and the health I once took for granted, I can't be the person I was then—but if I'm not that Kikyou, who am I, really?
---
I placed flowers on the deceased dog's grave this morning. A simple wooden plaque stood in front of his burial mound. It carried a date, but no name.
Did the dog lose his name when he drowned? Or was his name insignificant? Would it be easier for his owner to forget him when that name is gone? Or had he never had a name? Then who was this dog—and how had he lived?
To be nameless is the most profound tragedy that comes with dying.
---
I've asked so many rhetorical questions in the last few days; reading them makes my head spin, and I can almost see Dr. Suikotsu gently admonishing me with a quiet shake of his head. He's a nice man… artless and genuine, but I wonder sometimes if being nice gets him anywhere other than a general physician's post in an out-of-the-way retreat—this being, obviously, the backwoods of civilization.
Kagura came for tea today; she makes weekly trips from the lodge to bring fresh fruit and other foodstuffs, which she says she does as a favor for the proprietor. She stayed a while, chatted over scones and the boiling kettle. Her voice would be melodious, if it weren't so bored, so sardonic. Even though what she says is nice enough, she can't foster any more than a disinterested drawl when she speaks about it, with that hard-crusted sarcasm she likes so much.
Lady Rumor wears Kagura's face when she's out and about on the winds of gossip. (A wry smile lances my face as I write this.) She always has new trivialities to update me on every time she comes.
"There's a newcomer in town," she said, unloading apricot jam from her basket. The jam is homemade by the 'chefs' at the lodge. The food there is passable, I suppose. Kagura works part-time as a factotum (though she'd call herself something entirely different), and therefore has access to most of the food there. "Miroku, from down south. They say he's about to marry a pretty little exterminator, but needs a week or two off before he can fully commit himself to the old marriage-shackle."
Like usual, I say nothing in reply. What can I say?
"It's too bad I'm leaving in a couple days. Autumn season starts next week, and I gotta get back to my day-job, ugh. How long are you here?"
I hesitated, careful not to look up from the mug of tea I was pouring. "Until I get better," I said ambiguously.
If Kagura has one virtue, it's her essential egotism. Where another woman would have inquired about my illness or poked into my past, Kagura heard the information and didn't ask more—I gave her a tidied and brief reason for my stay, an explanation as dry as possible, and she wisely did not read scandal between the lines I gave her. A quiet young woman like myself couldn't have any scandal lurking behind her, hovering over her shoulder like a malignant angel. No, this girl wasn't good gossip material, not when there were adulterous managers and former prison warders prowling the lodge, on hand for no-strings-attached flirting with Miss Kagura.
She kept talking in her usual sarcastic way. "You needn't miss me too much, Kikyou. I'll be back for the winter holidays—if you're still here by then. When I'm gone, someone else will bring your groceries, depending on who's available at the lodge. Maybe they'll all traipse down here some time, all the residents. They're all cultish up there—they like each other so much, one couple's practically living together after their stay ends…"
Kagura left soon after, promising in her insincere way to meet me before she left. She speaks carelessly, dropping promises like breadcrumbs, quickly forgotten or gobble up by magpies as she wanders back through the forest.
---
This house has one attribute that lifts my spirits, and that's the library. Whereas you wouldn't think there'd be a library in this cramped, quaint little cottage, on the second floor there are two rooms—a tiny, disused bedroom, and a larger room crammed with bookshelves. It's quite lovely to look at, but unfortunately I can't stay there very long. It's shut in—the windows are sealed closed—and musty, and sometimes there's the smell of lingering smoke. (The last occupant was a cigar enthusiast, I gathered.)
Yet it's much better than nothing.
---
It never seems to rain here.
---
Looking to take advantage of the weather, I tried to brave the walk to the lake. Typically I go by way of the lodge, but I'd heard of a shortcut along the country road, so I went that way, mindful of the doctor's concerns. The less exertion I suffered, the happier (and quieter) he'd be.
To reach the paved road (a byway that stemmed from Route 44, the main artery, through the mountain pass), I had to cut through a grove of sycamores and evergreens. The going there was flat, the grass dry from a week without rain; it was easy, as far as the exertion went. But, luck working against me as it always did, I found that the uneven trail to the byway curved upward, and eventually I was climbing up a rutted, steep hill. The brambles scratched at my clothes, and by the time I was at its peak, my heart was hammering so heavily I could hear it thudding a rapid staccato in my ears.
I then headed downhill, to where the slope joined with the embankment of the byway. I could see the asphalt by then, gray and smooth and inviting. But as I was going down, I slipped and stumbled, rolling halfway down the hill and landing ungracefully on my side.
Too exhausted by then to do more than push myself to a sitting position, I didn't hear—or, more accurately, I heard, but didn't register—the rumbling sound of a coming vehicle. By the time the wheels pulled up next to me, I thought I wouldn't be seen, because I was half-lying nearly a meter from the surface of the road, right where the embankment of the byway met the end of the perverse slope I'd fallen from. The rider had apparently noticed me, and he got off to help me up.
Well, I was embarrassed. Obviously.
My face so hot from feeling my own stupidity, I nearly didn't realize he was asking me for where I was headed, and whether I needed a lift. I told him that I thought I was going to head down toward the lake, but now I'd rather just go back home.
"Where do you live? I'll take you there."
I glanced. The young man, not much taller than me, had on a billowing red jacket and a black riding helmet. He'd arrived here on a moped, headed toward the general direction of the lodge and the lake. His voice was young, and somehow suffused with naïveté. I'm not used to accepting favors from friends, not to mention strangers, but—tired and bruised—I asked him to take me to a small parking lot within walking distance of the cottage. He seemed friendly, after all.
It turned out that the young man was the motor-specialist of the lodge. He told me to call him Inuyasha, and asked me about my cottage—whether it was Haresnest, Mapleshade, or Larkhaven. My face hidden between his shoulder-blades as his coat billowed and flickered back and forth, sounding for all the world like flapping wings, I wondered whether it was a piece of providence or ill luck that had me tumble at this young man's feet.
He insisted on helping me the rest of the way back to my cottage, and though he was occasionally unruly in the way adolescents often are, he was also chivalrous. His essential innocence struck me, as I thanked him at the door of my cottage. He promised to check on me and gave me his pager number in case I wanted to take a ride down to the lake.
We talked. There was something in the way we talked that stirred recollections of life before. Something in his gaze that was evocative of another man, a more broken one. It was one of those slippery memories, half-recalled, that glance by conscious thought and then dissipates. I spent a few minutes wondering what it was I was trying to remember, then giving up in frustration. Inuyasha had an easygoing way of commanding my attention.
As he left, I wondered if we had been flirting.
---
I haven't written in two weeks. There wasn't anything to write about until now, because life just goes on. Kohaku, a boy—thirteen, freckled, and gangly as a colt—comes with my groceries now, and sometimes Inuyasha comes with him. We converse, but it's usually pleasant nothings. There was never any tension after that first day. I think I avoid it. I'm not sure why.
I saw that man again. Sesshoumaru.
He stood with Inuyasha in the sycamore clearing, looking as though they had been plucked straight out of ancient historical annals. They wore loose robes, and had their hands and legs bound by gauze. I startled when my eye caught the gleam of two ancient swords, each brandished by a wielder. They're brothers. Inuyasha told me today, after I interrupted their practice. The sight of those two—pale hair and tempered metal glinting in harmonious intent—brought a slow churn in my abdomen, a churn like reanimation.
Sesshoumaru saw me first; his eyes flickered, but there was otherwise no change in his stance. He continued as before, delivering each blow precisely.
The sound of swords striking each other is sharp and thrilling, like a metal chill coming down my spine. They parried and feinted in utter elegance at first, in routine motions of give and take. Then, as they switched orientations, Inuyasha noticed me standing by the entrance of the clearing, and with a soft chuckle, pressed on his brother. His attack came quicker and wilder, his sword flashing in the light until it became almost unbearable to look at. Yet the beat of the kissing blades never faltered—it only grew faster as Inuyasha became more frenzied.
Sesshoumaru matched him with a slow increase of speed and power in his own attack. When Inuyasha reached to score a point on his brother's arm, Sesshoumaru swerved away, his long hair taking the attack instead. A long pale lock fell.
Without warning, Sesshoumaru was on top of his brother, and Inuyasha giving ground, teeth clenched. The ring of the swords, the near-silent exertion of the brothers—they remain with me even now. Behind my eyes, I can see them dancing that lethal duet, pushing and pulling against each other like two natural disasters colliding.
The fight crescendoed. Cuts and nicks appeared on each brother. The rhythm of the swords faltered, though it sped up. Finally, with a careful turn of the wrist, Sesshoumaru disarmed his brother. Inuyasha's sword glided through the air like a toppling top spinning about its axis and landed, a soft glint in the verdant grass.
Sesshoumaru aimed the tip of his sword at his brother's neck. For a moment, there they hovered, and the clearing was in absolute silence. Then he drew away his sword and carefully wiped it with a special cloth. "Better," he said. "You would have done well, had you not been a testosterone-heavy fool."
Inuyasha grinned mirthlessly. "Bastard. Let me introduce you to Kikyou."
Where Inuyasha is simplicity wrapped up under a defensive, aggressive sheen, Sesshoumaru is proud belligerence through and through. He barely gave me a look and a disdainful sniff before sheathing his sword, and didn't bother to greet me. I didn't mind; I was nobody, after all, and I kept looking after him as he left us. There was something mesmerizing about his walk, the very smooth stride of certainty. Inuyasha noticed me observing him from the corner of my eye and, self-conscious, told me that he was always rude like that.
He retrieved the sword and wiped it down using the corner of his shirt. "You should come by the lodge more, Kikyou. There are people there I think you'd like."
"Perhaps," I said, not willing to reject Inuyasha outright.
"These new girls turned up, for the usual reasons. Turns out, one of them is about to marry another guy here, Miroku, and flipped out when she saw him flirting with Yura the lounge singer. The other one, her friend, helped calm her down, but right now the lodge is kinda awkward. You should come by when it's settled."
"From the looks of it, 'it' won't be settled for a long while."
Inuyasha shrugged, his muscular shoulders rolling. "Well, the new girl—not the one who's marrying Miroku, no, her friend—is pretty good at getting people to chill. Her name is Kagome. Hey, come to think of it, she looks a little like you."
The world drew to a tiny din, and, for a moment, all thought fled my mind. Kagome—Kagome, my twin sister. Raised by my father when my parents divorced. Cute, lovable Kagome. The only one who came to see me after I woke up, even though it was a trial and I could see her reluctance in her face and hear it in her speech. I didn't know anything could be worse than abandonment by my family and friends—until Kagome started visiting every week.
Had she found me? No—I'd told almost no one I was going. It was only one giant coincidence, a stroke of serendipity, that's landed her here with me.
Despite my qualms about lying to my friends, I told Inuyasha that—as much as I'd like to go to the lodge—I felt much too weak to risk going there and back. I preferred the quiet of my cottage (that much was true). I asked him not to bring them to my cottage, and trusted in his forgetfulness to omit my presence at the retreat to Kagome.
Sesshoumaru had not quite left yet, though he was out of earshot. At a harsh call from him, Inuyasha started to turn back. We exchanged amicable goodbyes, though he looked at me doubtfully. Then I watched the two brothers leave, walking uphill toward the direction of the lodge, their hair glinting pale streaks of silver between the trees.
I hope—pray, really—that Kagome never discovers me.