6
She got home an hour late than normal. She apologized profusely to the baby-sitter while offering to pay for the extra service. The sitter, who could use the extra cash, was more than glad for the delay.
"Mama, butterfly!" her son blurted out. She turned to him, noting that he had taken hold of the artist's drawing that she had tossed hurriedly on the kitchen table together with her groceries. It got a little creased at the edges but the parchment was thick enough to withstand some pressure.
The butterfly was daintily drawn in the middle of the sheet. Its wings spread out sideways with swirling fluid strokes. The design on its wings was intricately lined with the precision and detail of someone who seemed to have studied butterflies all his life. At the bottom left corner, the artist had added a poppy flower with its petals in full bloom as if inviting the flying creature into its bosom. The butterfly's body was slightly bent over getting ready to descend on its welcoming host. It was indeed a beautiful picture.
"That's right," she said to her son. "It's a butterfly. Do you like it?"
The child nodded cheerfully. "It's pretty. Where did you get it?"
"From the market."
"May I keep it?"
"Of course, dear. If you like."
"Yey!"
She smiled as the boy ran out of the living room, drawing in hand. He had always been her source of joy, and lately, the only source.
She went back to the kitchen to prepare lunch. As she cleaned the fish by the sink, her thoughts strayed to the rugged artist at the market. She'd never seen him before, must be from out of town. He'll have an apple for lunch, she mused. Just an apple. She cleared the thought from her mind and focused on her task. After lunch, she would carry out her usual routine to clean the house, teach her son, do the laundry then prepare dinner before her husband came home. She gave a little sigh.
She used to be a shinobi, and a good one by her own estimation. But she had to give it up in exchange for a family. Right then she applied a formula that always made her feel better. She thought of her son and how wonderfully he was turning out to be. She attributed this to the careful attention she had given him since he was born, an achievement that would have been impossible had she chosen to pursue a career. She smiled at her self-gratification. This was her life now-a loving wife and mother. She would do it faithfully, if not happily then dutifully.
7
He leaned back against the corner post where he took shelter under the eaves of a yakiniku shop along the road. He ran for it when a fresh downpour started again that morning. What rotten luck to be stranded at a shop that served barbecue of all things.
His belly rumbled as the scent of sweet meat from the shop's window came wafting under his nose. It was nearing lunch time anyway so he took out the apple from his bag and munched greedily on it. It was gone in a minute leaving only the thinnest of cores. He was sorry he ate it too fast. Chewing for a little while longer would at least dull his olfactory sense from smelling barbecue while the rain poured heavily before him. Another waft of tenderly roasting beef sent him running through the rush of wind and rain. He figured he'd rather get wet than bear that torturous aroma for one second longer.
The rain turned into a drizzle and finally the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. His run turned to a jog slowing further to a walk. He had reached the end of a few blocks at his pace by the time the sky cleared.
What a day and it was only half over. Some days were slightly better than this one. Some towns were more welcoming to a wandering artist offering his craft. But it was only his first day in Konoha. He was determined to sell a few of his work before he left.
Unfortunately, the ones he had labored on for the day were all ruined by the weather. He would have to make a new set and sell at least one before the day was through or he'd end up without supper. He wrung out excess water from the bottom of his shirt and then headed to the edge of a forest just beside town where he set camp for the duration of his stay.
8
Inside his makeshift tent, which was actually just a large tattered cloth tied with string and attached from the corners to the nearest branches, the young man took out a bundle of rolled up parchment from a plastic bag and started to cut a few sheets in half with a knife. He decided he would draw smaller pictures. He had to save his parchment until he had enough to buy another ream. Besides, he figured people might be more willing to buy them for a lesser price.
He started work immediately, ignoring the painful rumbling from the pit of his stomach. A starving artist wasn't such an odd thing. By all practical standards, art was not the best way to make a living. But he wasn't meant to be just an ordinary artist or so his parents deemed upon his birth. Fate would have been less cruel if they didn't raise their hopes so high.
He came from an ancient line of artist nins, a proud lineage that produced talented warriors throughout the centuries. One ancestor could carve out giant sculptures out of stone in one single motion then made it come to life to exert its mass destructive power on the enemy.
Another ancestor could paralyze an army with a genjutsu that involved trapping the senses in a kaleidoscope of patterned colors. Another one had the ability to create glass by gathering sand and water then forging them in the air. The glass would then come alive as human-shaped fighters. As characteristic of glass, they would easily shatter with one forceful blow but the resulting sharp fragments could do such painful damage to one's system that the aggressor would wish too late that the creation was left alone whole.
Such were the strength and notoriety of the artistic shinobi clan of old. But as history would have it, the members would eventually dwindle in number through the centuries because of wars and conspiracies and because propagation just wasn't on top of their priorities. It didn't help that the artistic jutsu gene was only passed down through the males. The descendants were eventually scattered throughout the shinobi world and the clan's once pure blood had been diluted to produce descendants of lesser abilities than their forebears.
9
He was supposed to be the hope of the ancient clan. His parents were both of pure blood ancestry, the last, as far as they knew. And he was their offspring from a difficult childbirth. All their hardships had to account for something. They were sure the boy would be the one to restore the artist nin clan's honor and prestige.
But he turned out to be a dud. For all the shinobi training that they invested in him, he never manifested any ability for ninjutsu. It took tremendous effort on their part to finally admit that their son's creations would amount to nothing more than just dainty art on paper. He was, as he would be reminded all his life, a disappointment to his family and his ancestry.
It would be unfair to say that he was thoroughly neglected by his parents. They fed him and clothed him as was their obligation. But they pretty much lost interest in anything he did after he failed ninja academy for the fifth time at the age of eleven. On top of that, he was far too gentle to be a warrior. He tried his best to compensate for his incompetence. He was polite and patient. He would readily do any chore they asked of him. He was helpful and hardly asked for anything. But nothing he did elicited approval.
By fifteen years old he asked his parents if he was a burden. They didn't answer. He wanted them to lie, to tell him he was their son and they loved him even if he was just an ordinary artist, but they opted for the truth.
He left home the same year. He did not run away. He told them he was going and they let him. They gave him some money and bade him farewell. He worked at odd jobs from town to town while drawing pictures for a fee at the side.
By the time he turned twenty, he went back home only to learn that his parents died on a mission a year prior. He never went back to that village again. He'd been a wandering artist for four years since. He stuck to his profession partly because he truly loved art and partly to pay homage to his parents, the last of the pure-blooded artist nin clan.
10
"What?" She asked the fruit vendor in surprise when she came again two days later.
"That man, the beggar. He asked me to give this to you this morning," came the reply as the vendor held out a coin to her. "For the apple he said. So you managed to give it to him after all. I really admire your..." The woman went on but she was no longer listening. She was irritated for some reason. Was it really so hard for him to accept a gesture of kindness from someone? She thanked the vendor and left after she made her usual purchase.
As she walked along the street, she spotted him at the old place by the corner. He was hunched down with arms crossed looking rather cold. He would occasionally rearrange the sheets on the straw mat putting one drawing over the other, probably deciding the one on top would catch someone's eye better. But there didn't seem to be any takers.
He looked paler than the last time, from hunger she supposed. The idea irritated her more. He could've just bought another apple instead of displaying false bravado. Ugh! Men and their machismo!
She could have just ignored him then but when she was already a few steps away, she turned back around and started walking toward him. She stood in front and waited until he looked up at her. When he recognized who she was he pointed at the direction of the fruit stall. "I gave - "
"Yes, she gave it to me," she interjected not very gently.
"Thank you," he said awkwardly then looked blankly down again.
"You didn't have to, you know," she said. "You already gave me a drawing as payment, remember?" She didn't understand why she was so upset. It wasn't like her to display annoyance. She was a proper lady, the wife of a highly esteemed man of society.
"The drawing was for your kindness," he said simply.
"You return kindness for kindness," she said impatiently.
He looked up at her confused. "You - ," he started. "You didn't like the drawing?"
"No. I mean yes, I did. I just meant…you didn't have to…," she was at a loss for words. And what was she doing arguing senselessly with this stranger? She sighed in resignation. "How much for this picture?"
Continued next page
