Japan, 1850
Sashi glared at the whimpering child. "Stop crying," she snapped. "You're just another mouth to feed until you finally give up." The eight- year-old plugged her ears in an attempt to block out the baby's sobs. Her mother's newest child, a boy, had been born early and was not expected to live much longer. Both of Sashi's parents and her older half brother were out working in the fields, while Sashi was expected to watch the child until he finally died. But the baby was still living. Sashi limped over the wooden cradle. The unnamed infant was wide awake and crying. Her lavender eyes softened. She reached into the cradle and touched her brother's soft cheek. "Hello," Sashi whispered. To her surprise, the baby stopped crying. He opened his eyes and looked at her. His eyes were purple too. Sashi picked him up. He weighed almost nothing, nestling in the curve of her arm. "Oh, you poor thing," she said. "You just wanted someone to hold you, didn't you?" Sashi rocked him gently. "You need a name, small one." She stroked his short, feathery red hair. "What if I called you Shinta, hm?" Little Shinta looked up at his sister and smiled.
Japan, 1851
"Shinta, I'll never get anything done if you keep following me," Sashi complained. To the surprise of the entire Himura family, including Sashi herself, the premature baby had not died, but had already passed his first birthday. He was still very small for his age, though. And he had remained steadfastly devoted to Sashi. "Shinta!" she complained again. One of his tiny hands held tightly to the hem of her kimono, while the other hand clutched his beloved blanket. Sashi knelt awkwardly to look the child in the eyes. "Shinta, I'm going to have to wash that."
Shinta frowned and jerked his blanket away from her. "Mine!" he pouted.
"I know it's yours, Shinta, but I need to wash it," Sashi explained. Logic didn't work for the little boy. She shuddered as she remembered the last time she washed Shinta's blanket. He had wailed-loudly, and long- until she had finally given it back to him, even though it was sopping wet. Suddenly an idea worked its way into her brain. "Shinta, what if I teach you how to wash your blanket? Will you let me teach you?" Shinta thought it over, then nodded solemnly. So Shinta learned to do laundry at the age of twenty months old.
Japan, 1852
"Sashi?" a voice called. "Shinta?" Keiko stepped into the little cottage, her eyes sparkling.
"Kaasan, Kaasan!" Shinta chirped. Keiko knelt so he could kiss her cheek.
"Hello, Kaasan," Sashi smiled.
Her mother stood and pressed a kiss on Sashi's forehead. "How have you been, loves?" she asked.
"Fine," Sashi said. "We-"
"Is my father here?"
Instinctively Keiko took Shinta in her arms. "Atsu is not here, Jisu," she whispered.
Sashi was afraid of her half-brother. She had been very young when her parents explained why Jisu was always angry. It still made no sense to her. Himura Atsu was a young man when his arranged marriage was settled. His first wife was a tall, imposing woman nearly ten years his senior. She bore him a son, but died when Jisu was ten. The following year, Manta married again- this time for love. Keiko was still in her teens, but she loved him. Both Sashi and Shinta favored their mother's slight build and sweet features, especially her wide lilac eyes.
"I want to see my father," Jisu repeated.
"I'm sure he'll be here shortly," Keiko murmured. She was afraid of her stepson. Sashi could see her hand trembling as she stroked Shinta's hair and rocked him gently.
"Keiko?" Sashi nearly wilted with relief as her father came in. He stopped when he saw his oldest son. "Jisu."
"I need money," he rasped.
Atsu put a reassuring hand on his small wife's shoulder. "We have barely enough to get by until next harvest, Jisu, much less money for you." He stared his son in the eye. "You can provide for your own family. Let me provide for mine."
Jisu opened his mouth as if to speak, then spun on his heel and stalked out of the cottage.
Atsu looked at his family. Sashi's eyes were immense and Shinta's chin was trembling. He smiled and gathered his children into his arms. "Oh, don't be so frightened, my small ones," he said. He kissed first Sashi's forehead, then Shinta's cheek. "I will not let anyone harm my children."
Japan, 1855
"Hey, gimp-girl!" Sashi ducked as another one of the village boys threw a rock at her. She held Shinta's hand tightly. "We're talking to you, gimp girl!"
Abruptly Shinta stopped in the middle of the street. "That's not her name!" he called. "Her name's Sashiko!"
This time the rock was aimed at the little boy. "Oh, Shinta, no!" Sashi gasped. The rock slammed into the side of Shinta's head and he collapsed. Sashi dropped her crutch as she knelt down. "Oh, Shinta," she sobbed, pulling the fragile child into her arms. Blood poured from the deep gash on his forehead. She lifted him in her arms and carried him slowly home.
It seemed like centuries before he awoke. Shinta's eyes opened slowly, attempting to adjust to the dim light. "Sashi?" he whimpered. "Sashi?"
"It's all right, Shinta," Sashi comforted him. "I'm here."
"Sashi, what's a gimp?" he asked.
Sashi sighed. She began working her fingers through his red hair. "A gimp.is a bad name for someone who limps or uses a crutch," she finally answered.
"Why do you limp, Sashi?" Shinta asked.
"A long time ago, when I was younger than you, I had a bad fall and my leg was broken," Sashi told him. "It never healed."
Shinta clenched his fists. "They shouldn't have called you that," he said in a low, tight voice.
Sashi tilted his chin up so she could look him in the eyes. "Shinta, no matter where you go, you always find those feeble people who find it amusing to taunt those weaker than themselves," she said. "Promise me that you will never stoop that low. Promise me that you will defend those weaker than you."
Shinta placed his hand over Sashi's thin one. "I promise," he said.
Sashi glared at the whimpering child. "Stop crying," she snapped. "You're just another mouth to feed until you finally give up." The eight- year-old plugged her ears in an attempt to block out the baby's sobs. Her mother's newest child, a boy, had been born early and was not expected to live much longer. Both of Sashi's parents and her older half brother were out working in the fields, while Sashi was expected to watch the child until he finally died. But the baby was still living. Sashi limped over the wooden cradle. The unnamed infant was wide awake and crying. Her lavender eyes softened. She reached into the cradle and touched her brother's soft cheek. "Hello," Sashi whispered. To her surprise, the baby stopped crying. He opened his eyes and looked at her. His eyes were purple too. Sashi picked him up. He weighed almost nothing, nestling in the curve of her arm. "Oh, you poor thing," she said. "You just wanted someone to hold you, didn't you?" Sashi rocked him gently. "You need a name, small one." She stroked his short, feathery red hair. "What if I called you Shinta, hm?" Little Shinta looked up at his sister and smiled.
Japan, 1851
"Shinta, I'll never get anything done if you keep following me," Sashi complained. To the surprise of the entire Himura family, including Sashi herself, the premature baby had not died, but had already passed his first birthday. He was still very small for his age, though. And he had remained steadfastly devoted to Sashi. "Shinta!" she complained again. One of his tiny hands held tightly to the hem of her kimono, while the other hand clutched his beloved blanket. Sashi knelt awkwardly to look the child in the eyes. "Shinta, I'm going to have to wash that."
Shinta frowned and jerked his blanket away from her. "Mine!" he pouted.
"I know it's yours, Shinta, but I need to wash it," Sashi explained. Logic didn't work for the little boy. She shuddered as she remembered the last time she washed Shinta's blanket. He had wailed-loudly, and long- until she had finally given it back to him, even though it was sopping wet. Suddenly an idea worked its way into her brain. "Shinta, what if I teach you how to wash your blanket? Will you let me teach you?" Shinta thought it over, then nodded solemnly. So Shinta learned to do laundry at the age of twenty months old.
Japan, 1852
"Sashi?" a voice called. "Shinta?" Keiko stepped into the little cottage, her eyes sparkling.
"Kaasan, Kaasan!" Shinta chirped. Keiko knelt so he could kiss her cheek.
"Hello, Kaasan," Sashi smiled.
Her mother stood and pressed a kiss on Sashi's forehead. "How have you been, loves?" she asked.
"Fine," Sashi said. "We-"
"Is my father here?"
Instinctively Keiko took Shinta in her arms. "Atsu is not here, Jisu," she whispered.
Sashi was afraid of her half-brother. She had been very young when her parents explained why Jisu was always angry. It still made no sense to her. Himura Atsu was a young man when his arranged marriage was settled. His first wife was a tall, imposing woman nearly ten years his senior. She bore him a son, but died when Jisu was ten. The following year, Manta married again- this time for love. Keiko was still in her teens, but she loved him. Both Sashi and Shinta favored their mother's slight build and sweet features, especially her wide lilac eyes.
"I want to see my father," Jisu repeated.
"I'm sure he'll be here shortly," Keiko murmured. She was afraid of her stepson. Sashi could see her hand trembling as she stroked Shinta's hair and rocked him gently.
"Keiko?" Sashi nearly wilted with relief as her father came in. He stopped when he saw his oldest son. "Jisu."
"I need money," he rasped.
Atsu put a reassuring hand on his small wife's shoulder. "We have barely enough to get by until next harvest, Jisu, much less money for you." He stared his son in the eye. "You can provide for your own family. Let me provide for mine."
Jisu opened his mouth as if to speak, then spun on his heel and stalked out of the cottage.
Atsu looked at his family. Sashi's eyes were immense and Shinta's chin was trembling. He smiled and gathered his children into his arms. "Oh, don't be so frightened, my small ones," he said. He kissed first Sashi's forehead, then Shinta's cheek. "I will not let anyone harm my children."
Japan, 1855
"Hey, gimp-girl!" Sashi ducked as another one of the village boys threw a rock at her. She held Shinta's hand tightly. "We're talking to you, gimp girl!"
Abruptly Shinta stopped in the middle of the street. "That's not her name!" he called. "Her name's Sashiko!"
This time the rock was aimed at the little boy. "Oh, Shinta, no!" Sashi gasped. The rock slammed into the side of Shinta's head and he collapsed. Sashi dropped her crutch as she knelt down. "Oh, Shinta," she sobbed, pulling the fragile child into her arms. Blood poured from the deep gash on his forehead. She lifted him in her arms and carried him slowly home.
It seemed like centuries before he awoke. Shinta's eyes opened slowly, attempting to adjust to the dim light. "Sashi?" he whimpered. "Sashi?"
"It's all right, Shinta," Sashi comforted him. "I'm here."
"Sashi, what's a gimp?" he asked.
Sashi sighed. She began working her fingers through his red hair. "A gimp.is a bad name for someone who limps or uses a crutch," she finally answered.
"Why do you limp, Sashi?" Shinta asked.
"A long time ago, when I was younger than you, I had a bad fall and my leg was broken," Sashi told him. "It never healed."
Shinta clenched his fists. "They shouldn't have called you that," he said in a low, tight voice.
Sashi tilted his chin up so she could look him in the eyes. "Shinta, no matter where you go, you always find those feeble people who find it amusing to taunt those weaker than themselves," she said. "Promise me that you will never stoop that low. Promise me that you will defend those weaker than you."
Shinta placed his hand over Sashi's thin one. "I promise," he said.