"I am haunted by waters" - Norman Maclean

"Cursed."

Wind knocked on the glass, ratatatat. Vigil candles flickered, casting shadows up the walls. Through it all—the storm, the wind, the night—Grandmother had lain motionless. She was motionless now, hands splayed across the bedclothes, a waning slip of consciousness. Only her eyes remained clear, and these she fixed on me. They were golden eyes, unusually intent, like lanterns in the dark. They magnified the words she hissed, and these words were hoarse and vicious and certain.

"Cursed!" she spat again. "That's what you are. That's what you were born to be. The Serpent knew, the Serpent began it. He put the idea inside Kemui's head, and Kemui did the rest. Would that I'd had power to stop him—would that I'd tried! How small a price this life, if only to prevent yours!"

I clasped the sides of my head, willing down the anger. Let it cool, let it die. It wouldn't do to be furious now, to ask for reasons, to demand she take it back and finish dying. I was standing at her bedside, too frightened to run, too frightened to call for help. Help...who could help now? The doctors were gone, the nurses retired. It was the pair of us together, alone, unhappy, the ideal atmosphere for Grandmother's death—the ideal time to tell me everything. And tell me she did: my origins, my birth, the truth about my Mother and the man called Kemui. The reason for my father's madness, and why the entire village of Mura no Kawa had to burn. In measured, wicked bursts Grandmother narrated. With each new revelation my terror grew, and I thought, I must get away.

But where to? It had crossed my mind, during this exchange, that Konoha was but one point on a map of infinite points, any of which might offer salvation. Escape, in short, was not impossible, and yet the more I considered it, the more I absorbed Grandmother's words, the greater my despair, and deeper the certainty that there was no place in this world for one like me. I could travel the country, the land, the entire earth, and my identity would remain. My past I could not escape, and my past was in the story, embodied in so many words. The words and story...inseparable entities, they were. They closed in upon me, drowning my hope, defining the future with stark, unhappy lines. No, there was no place for me to run. No place but here, in Konoha, standing at the death bed of my last relative, receiving her knowledge and suffocating beneath it. Ah, but it would end soon.

Grandmother watched me in silence. Through the dark, she looked like a snake skin, shriveled and pale. The lids above her eyes were bloated from illness, the irises slits of waning light. Standing so close, I noticed how faint her markings were. The purple shadow, the Serpent's Stain—our heritage. She had it, but so much less vividly than I. Even her irises were pale, like summer wheat. Dim, unremarkable eyes.

Nothing like my eyes, I thought. Nothing like the eyes of Mother and Kemui. How clear and perfect their features appeared in my mind. Long bodies, alabaster skin, black hair. Elegant and beautiful they seemed, through the haze of memory. Their eyes had been as yellow as mine, the color above their eyelids the same vibrant lavender which crossed my skin, an intricate weaving of tiny punctured vessels, all mottled and woven and strange. It had been a topic of much praise for my Mother. 'How lovely your eyes are, Orochimaru' she would say; 'how like Kemui's—Kemui, don't you think? Isn't he beautiful?'

And Kemui, who had known all along, would laugh and agree with her. He would take my chin in his hand, lifting my face to the light. 'Snake eyes,' he'd remark, winking at me as if it were some private joke . 'Very beautiful. Orochimaru, you're a son of Mura no Kawa. The river birthed you. The Serpent gave you life. One day, you'll repay him, and you'll be a leader. One day you'll shape the world.'

"You should have killed him, Grandmother" I said aloud. My voice was startling...how calm it sounded in my ears. "You should have killed us both. So why didn't you? You had plenty of chances...you could have done it the night I was born...so why did you go along with Kemui's plan? Why didn't you stop him?"
"I had no choice!" Grandmother raised herself up, breathing heavily. I moved to step back, but she grabbed my shirt, drawing me forward. "You don't know the trouble I went through to try and change his mind. But it was for Hebiki that I stayed quiet. For Hebiki and her own happiness. Hebiki would never have forgiven me for taking you away, and she never would have forgiven me for turning out Kemui. But I always knew how it would end. What pain this world might have been spared if I'd tossed him in the river when he was a boy. I should have done the same with you. But Kemui...Kemui wouldn't let me. He'd never have let me do it!"

I clutched Grandmother's hand, twisting away. I couldn't listen anymore. Glancing towards the window, I had a sudden impulse to jump. We were two stories up—a jump this high might kill me. And if it did? Would death take all this away? The memories, the story, Grandmother's horrible confessions. Would death relieve me of their burden? Or would I be bound to the earth, with only thoughts for company. Thoughts like It isn't true Grandmother and Could we ever have been happy Grandmother, you and I?

There is no happiness, Orochimaru. Only desire.

Kemui's voice bubbled up to my ears, and with it, a tiring revisit to our final night together—the night Kemui pulled us through the dark, Mura no Kawa burning behind us. How had we made it, I wondered in hindsight. We'd been so quiet, so careful, yet every movement felt like a scream in the dark. How frightened I'd been as we waded to the river's edge, sneaking between rushes and cattails. That boat of reeds floating on the silent water, Kemui pushing us into it, all vivid in my mind. Grandmother's hands had been so tight as she held me close, and the boat rocked below us like a cradle. I'd sick...so sick...Kemui stooping in the mud and clasping the prow with one white hand. He was taking us into the current. He was forcing us away. And as he pushed, his words came soft and concise, implying salvation, which had made me hate him more than ever.

"Go to Konoha," he'd told us. "Go to Konoha, and start over again. There's nothing for it—it's the only place for you...the Village Hidden in the Leaves. Retreat there, and the better times will come. Start over, begin fresh. Can such things be? Are there such things as new beginnings? You'll have to find out for me."
Yes, Kemui. We'll find out, I suppose.
 I put a hand to my lips, ready to vomit. The memory was nauseating me; the rocking boat, Grandmother's heartbeat in my ears, water slapping at the prow. Kemui's breathing...
Kemui...it was your fault we had to leave. Your fault that we couldn't save Mother, that the village burned. Where are you now, Kemui? Dead or alive? Alive, I hope. Alive and slowly dying...you ruined everything. You ruined our lives. And one day...one day...

A screen door rattled below, startling me back to the present. Someone was coming upstairs. It was Sarutobi Hiruzen, the man who found us and our boat, who pulled us from the river. He'd been a silhouette when we first met, a shadow amid lesser shadows. But he'd spoken calmly, and offered help. It was he who brought us to Konoha, who washed and dressed us, who gave us food and beds to sleep in. When Grandmother fell ill, it was Sarutobi who moved her to this quiet, simple room with large windows and an elevated bed. He said to me, "when she's passed on, I'll come take you somewhere important." Well, Grandmother had not 'passed on'. But she would soon. The realization left a pit in my stomach. Nausea clung heavy to me as Sarutobi crossed the balcony. Would he take me away, then? Had he come to keep his word?

Lightening burst outside, throwing the balcony into sharp contrast. Sarutobi's shadow was a fractured pattern on the screen, large and full formed. He pushed the screen aside, and with him came a rush of air and rain. I threw up a hand to shield myself, squinting through the droplets. Sarutobi stood in the doorway, drenched and stalwart. He looked at me a long time, then suddenly relaxed his brow. Intensity gave way to compassion; a sad, discrete gentleness—the sort men show in the face of tragedy. With soft steps he approached me. I did not step back.

"Orochimaru," he said quietly. "Orochimaru, it's time to go."
"Go?" I echoed, stiff and wet beside the bed. "Right now? But it isn't time—it isn't over! I won't leave while Grandmother's-"
"Has he come to take you?" Grandmother tossed her head, snaring Sarutobi with her eyes. She looked cadaverous, all twisted in the sheets. "He means to take you? To make you a member of Konoha? Pa! The man's a fool if he tries. And what will you do with him, Sarutobi? What use has Konoha for a child of the river? He bears the Serpent's stain—he's a demon. His father was a madman, and his mother is dead because of it. You'll be sorry you ever lay hands on him!"
"Orochimaru," Sarutobi kept his eyes on me. He was ignoring Grandmother—a dangerous move, I wanted to tell him. But my own voice died as he reached out and took my arm, grasping it firmly above the elbow. It was an assertive gesture. Absolute, domineering. The way Kemui used to grab me in a fit of anger. I jerked away, menacing him with my eyes. "You heard her—I'm a child of the river. You cannot-"
"You will not take him away!" Grandmother thrashed between the sheets, arms flailing and bruised. Her white hair had come loose from its braid, limp and haggish about her face. "Orochimaru!" she gasped, "Orochimaru, remember what I told you, what Kemui told you! Don't you remember what he said? Don't you remember what it meant?"

Yes, I remembered. And at that moment, when I did not wish to remember anymore, I heard the evil man's voice more clearly than ever. More clearly than the memory of the night with Grandmother in the boat, more clearly than the last words he spoke when pushing us down river. A fanatic prophecy, just a whisper across the water: Orochimaru, Serpent's son. Child of the River. To the river you are born, to the river you die. It's waters are your blood, its movement your life. Live in its embrace, share its madness. Water is capricious as fire, as meandering as wind. Be like the water, and shape the world to your inclination. Be like water, and fire will be yours to command.

"He speaks!" Grandmother screamed. She convulsed on the bed, a skewered snake. Urine rushed between her legs, staining the sheets. She moaned, blood splattering down her chin, quaking in the presence of a dead man whose voice she heard in my thoughts, and whose face she saw in mine. "Kemui, oh Kemui! The river is fire! Fire, flesh, and blood! Your child...the Serpent's coming for him! Into him the Serpent will be born! Summon the Serpent, Orochimaru! Nurse him in your body, give him life as he gave it to you! Be the water which shapes the land! Become a god!"

"She's mad" Sarutobi snapped, pushing me back against the wall. He was calling to the nurses. Up they came, a sweep of starch and linen. They crowded around Grandmother, a circle of elm trees bending and sweeping their white arms across her body. I crouched on my knees, trying to see through their many legs, to make out Grandmother's face. But she was blocked from my eyes. Only her voice carried through. Her words had degenerated to nonsense, to frightened moans and grating shrieks. The loud, incensed ruckus of the mad and possessed.

I clasped my hands over my ears, desperate to drown it out. Curled against the wall I drew up my knees, pressing my forehead against them, rocking and rocking. The river...remember the river, Orochimaru I told myself, not the myth, not the dark songs, but the river you knew. The river you loved, with its wild, rippling laughter. The river my home, the river my world. The river in which I swam before I walked, which flowed through me in peaceful, poetic fluxes. Its song a melody, its voice gentle as wind. Gentle like Mother's voice, like Mother's smile...

Remember the river, Orochimaru...the river will bring you fortune.

Mother...oh Mother, come back...

"He'll bring you ruin!" Grandmother's words broke through my reverie, jarring me from the comfort. The room had gone still. The nurses still fringed the bed, but now they looked at me, somber and pallid. Sarutobi knelt beside me, two hands on my shoulders. From his shadow I watched my Grandmother. Her death throes were over, her life flickered low. The end was here. Her eyes slipped back, she twitched once, and then she died.

The air in my lungs rushed out, my shoulders slumping. I felt deflated and weak. But everything was finished, and everything was quiet at last. I could breathe again.

~~~

"I have a place for you," Sarutobi spoke frankly. Casually. As though the events upstairs were long forgotten, a world apart, and now we had returned to the land of the living. To Konoha, with its warm lamps and laughing children. To the land of reason and comfort and security, which was the only life Sarutobi appreciated. "You'll stay there three months, then we'll talk about your future. There's a lot to discuss."

"Discuss," I repeated, shocked at my own indifference. We were walking through the wet roads of the village. Mud splattered my bare feet, and I was faintly aware that we'd left my sandals behind, in the room with the dead woman. "What is it? What do we need to discuss? Where is this place? Why am I going there?"
"To answer those questions," Sarutobi side stepped a villager, clasping my wrist tighter, "you must be patient, and wait for me. About why I'm taking you there, I told you. For your future. Mura no Kawa is no longer your home. You're a member of the Leaf now. You're a child of Konoha. This is your home."

Home, I reflected. New home. Home to home, hand to hand. The litany of chaos. Is life made of such things? Such patterns? Are memories nothing but patterns themselves? Visions of home...what are they, but patterns of thought? Visions of nostalgia? Patterns of feeling. The smell of water and summer air, fisher cranes and song birds, silver fish and yellow eels...all patterns. The sunset. The river. Simplicity, routine...patterns.

How often, I wonder, do patterns recur? Do they circle once, and then evaporate? Where does life go, when its pattern has ceased? Is it born anew, or does that pattern disintegrate, making room for another? Riverland, my home, have you left me forever? Have you subsided to the corners of my mind? Do you exist now as only a pattern of thought? A figment of my mind? Will I, one day, be only a pattern of memory? As Kemui, Mother, and Grandmother are now memories? What happens to this pattern, after death?

Far away the storm continued to rage. The lightening flashed less frequently, the thunder murmured, but only at a distance. Konoha was safe. Sarutobi was speaking again, though I only heard the concept of his words: Night is ending. The sun will rise, a gateway into tomorrow. New days are new beginnings.

Tomorrow..a new beginning, the death of the old. Tomorrow is coming, and I am not prepared.