The Color of Life
By Amber Michelle
Written for Glance Reviver theme #1 - Shivering Soul in the Darkness. Rated for some grim implications, and probably not my most popular idea. Oh well.
The samurai who brought Shiho to the shrine left with a murmured something about his sick mother, a lie she accepted with a decorous bow. He guided her to the altar before hurrying off. Shiho, with nothing better to do, felt for the hinoki wood, polished and smooth, before clapping her hands together and bowing her head in a show of prayer. Her muscles twinged - her feet from walking, her thighs from hours on a horse. Most warriors from Hai Lan could not afford horses to ride, but they often forgot that she herself was no warrior, nor in any shape to walk all the way from Dragoncastle. She had collapsed before the general deigned to take her into the saddle.
A stiff breeze from the ocean cooled the afternoon, bringing with it the calls of seagulls and crash of waves, washing over the shrine with the heavy scent of pine and wild grasses. From within came a breath of incense and dust. The silence should have brought her comfort after the noise of the march, but it left her free to wonder why the priestess she'd sent for wasn't here yet, if the shrine had washed their hands of her as the villagers seemed to.
Other parts of her body twinged when she shifted on her feet. She'd taken a blow to the middle when the enemy surprised her unit and swept in on their position. Nothing would feel better than the hot bath promised by the hot springs in the back, if only she could get there.
Shiho heaved a long sigh and turned around, holding her hand out to grasp the hemp rope of the bell. It took a moment to find, and she winced at the strength needed to pull.
A few minutes passed, which she did her best not to count, and then footsteps pattered on the stone to her left, pounding up the wooden steps. A child's voice called her name. She turned when addressed and bowed. This was not Minayo, whom she knew from previous visits.
"My name is Nanami." The voice came closer, and Shiho decided she couldn't be that young; the shift in the air indicated height almost equal to her own. The priestess spoke after a pause that might have encapsulated a bow. "My sister has been called to the general's manor. How may I be of service?"
Shiho lowered her chin, sweltering under the covering draped over her head. She fingered the silk hem and managed to keep her lips from trembling. "A cleansing rite. We sent a messenger."
The priestess took her hand and tucked it into the crook of her elbow to lead. She said nothing aside from directions, to let her know there was a step here and here, and the path sloped downward and got slippery where the pine cones and dropped and shattered. Her work was never done, her guide eventually said, when sand and pebbles gritted under their sandals near the spring. No sooner was she done sweeping than the wind came to scatter something else over the path, as if the gods were playing with her, testing her mettle with the broom.
The air inside the changing house was hot, the thatch doing nothing but choking them with the smell of baking grass. Shiho pulled the robe from her head and let the priestess take it from her.
"You're wearing kurenai? Are you here for a marriage? That's another rite entirely—"
"No."
Nanami swallowed audibly, or perhaps the area around the spring was too quiet, sheltered from the wind by the screens and stone walls Shiho had felt along the path.
"What is kurenai?"
Again Nanami let the silence stretch a little too long in pause, and then drew a shaking breath. "It's the ritual color for the surrendering of--"
"I know that. But what is it?"
If her body hadn't still ached from her ordeal she might have summoned up some sympathy for the young priestess. Perhaps this Nanami wasn't a child, but she had the sound of one - the innocence, the bright intonation. She and her sister must be sheltered within these walls, not even touched by the battles fought to keep them safe, except for the rituals they conducted to bless the army.
What an enviable existence. To think a scraped knee or a tumble down the steps was traumatic.
"Kurenai is a kind of red. It's very dark, like blood, to emulate birth."
Ah. Shiho knew blood. This "kurenai" must be a warm, sticky sort of color, like the flesh of a plum, or a half-dried persimmon. She rubbed the collar between her fingertips, almost expecting it to cling, and then pulled her obi loose to shed the kimono.
Nanami's swift intake of breath was expected; her prayer did not touch Shiho. When the priestess's small hands brushed the bruising over her ribs she jerked away.
"I must be able to touch you to cleanse." Nanami's voice wavered, but did not break or stutter. She led Shiho ten steps to the left and said, "You must remain standing."
Shiho nodded and steeled herself. The other girl's hands were smaller and gentler than the general's, of course, but no more comforting just because they were female. A cloth was dipped in water, twisted to be rid of the excess, dabbed over her wounds and scrubbed over her arms and legs. Nanami soaked the silk and wrung it over the worst of the bruising on her abdomen, and again to wash the streaks of blood from between her thighs. The sticky unpleasantness of the memory made her skin crawl and prickle.
"You may stay in the spring as long as you like," Nanami said, subdued, when she guided them to the edge and helped Shiho step in. "I will return with what I need for the blessing and some bandages."
Shiho nodded, silent.
The priestess waited, shifting on her own feet while Shiho settled herself on a rock, careful of her injuries. Nothing was broken, but her nerves were still on fire.
"I— I suppose, at Dragoncastle..."
"We lost," Shiho said.
Silence.
Eventually she heard the priestess move away, and she relaxed one muscle at a time, leaning back against a smooth rock. After the shock of entry, the warm water soothed her muscles, warming her skin and lapping, licking at her skin like wind and sunlight. She turned her face up to the sky, and wondered if the gods were smiling on the rest of Hai Lan, or if the oppressive heat was merely a product of being ground beneath their sandals.