the magic garden
But what happened to the little boy when the little girl did not come back? And what had become of her?
It takes half a month or more before Takashi realizes something is missing and a few more days after that before he realizes what it is. It exists, at first, like a strange and dim fog of awareness, too transparent to be grasped and not concrete enough to be understood. He has been too preoccupied with his studies for far too long that he has not gone out for the sake of leisure for weeks now. He tries to find it in between obscure texts of classical literature and papers on Japan's economy, tries to perceive it in between rows and rows of essays that need to be read, reread, revised and submitted, or in the coffee mugs from the café near the university that always leave him drowsy and out of it.
December is nearing its end and he has not given much thought about Christmas yet. Outside, the snow keeps falling from the sky, mounds of it unplowed in the streets of Tokyo. He has yet to see the sun. Vaguely, he remembers a line, something about snowflakes and people not being as unique as them. He must be going insane.
His routine is the same. Wake up at 6:00. Eat breakfast with Satoshi, mother, and, rarely, father. Go to school. Attend classes. Go home. Study. Meditate. Practice kendo. Eat dinner. Sleep. Once in a while, a particularly unbalancing social function is inserted into the schedule. A boring life, he thinks, but to do otherwise would have its consequences, fatal or not.
He removes his gloves once he steps inside the car that has been patiently waiting for him for half an hour. His hands and feet are numb from the cold and his fingers ache from jotting down notes that are still perfectly readable, still in bold, elegant strokes that he has been practicing for years. He does not take off his coat or his scarf. In this weather, he could not afford to lose more body warmth.
Some days, Takashi really and truly hates December, with its frostiness merged with its holiday cheer. There are children in the park he passes by, and some of them are making snow bunnies with eyes made of candy, marbles, or whatever bright colored object they have in their pockets. It reminds him of something, but he cannot put his finger on it.
Because Satoshi's class ends half an hour after his, he tells the driver to go directly to Ouran. Some young girls look at him curiously (and a little interestedly), pretty little things with their branded coats and expensive gloves, some still with braided hairs and some in more elaborate hairstyles, all of them ready for the winter break. Takashi waits for Satoshi in the lobby, a well-lit, luxuriously furnished Westernized room intended to impress and suit the extravagance its students have known for their entire lives. He has walked through these halls before, and a part of him knows it and misses it, but some parts of him are simply glad that he has finally gotten away. It used to be so unbearable then, but even that thought exists only as a thought, as if disconnected from the actual memory. High school is like that. Maybe, he thinks, college will seem like high school too, in the future – a translucent, fleeting memory of long months and longer hours that sum up a fraction of a person's life.
It is strange how the formation and education is surreal in the mind, as if it has never existed. Takashi has been foolish enough to say (or, at the least, think) that he will never forget better days spent in Ouran, but now – now, he is struggling to remember, and even in that battle he does not emerge triumphant. Perhaps the requirement for a memory to withstand the test of time is for it to be writ in paper, recorded as accurately or clinically for it to be true, and as personal for it to be real.
One day, he will even forget that thought. It does not take too long. He forgets it as soon as Satoshi comes up to him and greets him with a nod.
They enter the car in a half-stiff, half-comfortable silence. Takashi has always been of a taciturn disposition, preferring the quiet that life has to offer over the loudness and vigor of youth, and Satoshi has always been a little in awe (a little intimidated) of his brother to intrude in the simple joys his brother cannot have as often as he wants. It is, perhaps, an affair of respect, founded on little words and lesser arguments. It is better this way.
But Takashi (who has always relied on his gut feeling) is still perturbed, his mind a jumble of words and ideas, and it makes the silence more awkward than it should be. Satoshi steals glances at him, until he finally exhales and says, exasperatedly, "alright, what's wrong?"
Takashi looks up, a little startled to be interrupted from his distracted thoughts, and flexes his fingers, trying to regain more feeling in them. "It's nothing. It's just…"
Satoshi's eyebrows rise a little higher expectantly.
"I keep feeling like I've left something behind, or something's left me," says Takashi uncertainly.
Satoshi looks at him in concealed amazement and disbelief, but says nothing, as if waiting for him to continue. He does.
"It doesn't make sense, though. What have I forgotten?" He wonders, and thinks. Even then, he still cannot find his answer, and Satoshi offers him no clues. He is sure of one thing, though: it feels like he has lost a part of himself.
Nobody knew what had happened to the little girl. Someone, though, told the boy how he had seem her fasten her sled to another, larger one which had driven out of the town. The boy cried a great deal. The winter was long and dark for him.
Then the spring came and with it the warm sunshine. He thought to himself: I must find her.
He finds his answer by accident (or luck, perhaps, because every accident depends on luck) at a gathering hosted by a family friend.
There is a young girl there that stands out in a room full of older men and women. She is a shy bud amidst a room full of leaves; in her white dress, she looks more youthful and innocent than ever. Takashi's mother eyes them keenly when they are seated next to each other during dinner. There is a strange smile on his mother's lips, and her mother is conversing with his, as if they are making a business deal, or a criticizing art. Takashi dances with her more out of politeness than anything else when his mother suggests it, and her hand is soft and warm even through their gloves. Still, Takashi cannot help but think as he stares into her moon-like eyes that Haruhi is far more beautiful than she is.
Just like that, he remembers. All he has ever needed is an unconscious reminder, or a push in the right direction.
One cannot blame him, then, for stopping half-way to seek out his brother.
"Satoshi," he says, his voice a mixture of frightened relief and strangled anxiety, "when was the last time you saw Haruhi?"
Satoshi fixes him with the same stare he has given days ago. It is then that Takashi knows that he understands all too well. When he speaks, his voice is laced with something like pity. "Nii-san, she hasn't visited us for three weeks."
He should have expected this. It is like a crushing blow that leaves him in a half-dazed, half-deflated state, makes him incoherent and unable to identify anything with a critical eye. A passing youth near his age looks at him with a wry, discomfiting smile. Takashi knows it means something, but he feels too weak to consider it. He shivers.
He goes home with a heavy heart and the lame excuse of feeling too ill and spends the ride home calling her a few times. It is temporarily unavailable, the operator says, and Takashi looks at his phone in disbelief. This has never happened before.
When he manages to make his way to his room lock the door behind him, he crawls under the covers and stares at the phone in his hand until he falls asleep.
The evening passes soundlessly, but he feels colder and more alone. Come morning, the sun is out and the snow falls off the tree branches in great heaps. It almost feels like a rebirth, but he has always been a no-nonsense person, so he views nature as it is and this scene as a problem.
His mind is tired, his body cold, but his heart is still alive, with the kind of fervor reserved for lovers, madmen, or the desperate alike.
There is a redeemable point in his character which some consider as his greatest flaw. He does not easily give up.
A month is too long for it to be dismissed so easily. He knows, however, that he does not want to stop chasing after her, despite the announcement the day after from his mother concerning his future and an arranged marriage with a wonderful young woman of their acquaintance.
He went down the path to the river and climbed into a boat that lay on the bank. The stream carried it away. It glided along, passing trees and fields; he saw a large orchard, in which stood a strangely colored house. The current swept the boat straight towards the bank. He started to call out, and an old woman came out of the house. She leaned upon a crutch and wore a sunhat painted with beautiful flowers.
She stepped into the water, brought the boat in close, and lifted the little boy out. "And now come and tell me who you are and how you came here," she told him, and led him into the house and shut the door.
Takashi has always been a logical and practical boy.
If one fails to contact a person, hoping against hope that luck would be on your side is pointless and emotionally draining. Takashi knows the difficulty of waiting. He suddenly recollects, with mute regret, how Haruhi must have been waiting for him to notice.
He visits Haruhi's house, but finds out from her father that "she's been going out a lot these days, leaving her poor father all alone!" Then he tries Hikaru and Kaoru, simply because he does not know who else to rely on.
Information gathering, however, is simply not his forte. The twins alternate between looking pissed (half at him, and half for another reason entirely) and looking depressed. At least, he's seen signs of repression from both of them, and that's not psychologically healthy. This is how he concludes that something is Very Fucked Up Indeed, and that's just putting it mildly. The only thing he gets from Hikaru is an angry "that bastard" muttered in between glares and grimaces.
He still does not know who Hikaru is referring to. It leaves him at a loss, to put it simply. The twins are the only friends of hers that he has had the fortune of knowing. He winds up, instead, at Mitsukuni's house, disturbed and despondent enough to resort to drastic measures.
The strange thing about it, though, is that Mitsukuni (despite having surprising moments of depth and full comprehension) seems to know what is wrong before he even says anything. Takashi realizes this as soon as he is shown into the room and greets Mitsukuni good afternoon, because Mitsukuni opens the door a little wider and says, sympathetically, "I was afraid you would never come. Would you like some tea?"
Dumbly, Takashi accepts the invitation, although it feels, strangely, like he is going to confession before dying.
The windows were very high and painted with different colors, so that the light came through in strange hues. On the table was a bowl of delicious cherries, and she let him eat as many as he liked, while she combed his hair with a gold comb. And as she did so, he thought less and less of the little girl, for the woman was a witch, but not a wicked one. She went into the garden and waved her stick over the rose bushes, and they disappeared into the black earth, leaving no trace of their existence.
The little boy played in the garden till the sun set behind the tall cherry trees for many days. He knew every flower in the garden, but it seemed to him as if there was one missing. He could not remember which.
One day, he looked at the woman's sun hat, and there he saw a rose. The little boy cried when he did not find roses in the garden, but his tears fell on the spot where a rose bush had sunk, and the bush came up in full bloom as it had been before. He kissed the roses and thought of the ones at home, and with that thought he remembered the little girl.
Mitsukuni begins, a little awkwardly but managing to hide it with his archness, with a question regarding his health. Takashi tries to answer as truthfully as he could, although he is still a little confused. His mind is still in disarray. There is the matter of his impending exams, his possible nuptials, and, of course, everything begins and ends with Haruhi. Mitsukuni nods and pats his hand with Usa-chan's lifeless ones.
"That's alright," he says sanguinely, "everyone is, at first. Confused, I mean."
It's times like this that makes him wonder how close he and Mitsukuni could have been if he had not made room for Haruhi in the earlier stages of his life. Perhaps Mitsukuni is his best friend, but what is Haruhi, then? Some part of him wishes to say that she is a fragment of his heart, but it would not do her enough justice.
Mitsukuni tries to distract him from his thoughts, ever the entertainer. He is successful enough in his execution of such a goal. He recounts and invents stories of school and friends, from the amusing (melodramatic) Suoh, to the equally entertaining Houshakuji. But, as all entertainers are wont to do, he himself is carried away by the flow of the conversation, and a slip of tongue is unavoidable.
He mentions Ohtori, and immediately colors. "Oh," he says, a little ashamed at himself, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't bring him up."
Takashi wakes up from his hazy trance. "Why?"
Mitsukuni's surprise is evident enough; his expression quickly morphs to pity as he nibbles on his parfait. "Didn't you know? He's the one who stole Haruhi away."
Takashi's blood turns cold.
In the space of a few minutes, minus the formalities and the stories, Mitsukuni has told him more than he manages to know in three hours. He does not know, however, if the new found knowledge is worth treating as a threat, or if it is not. He knows little of the youngest Ohtori, the boy who he converses with, sometimes, when in the company of socialites, the youth who smirked at him the other day, the one who always felt too distant, too cold, like ice.
Haruhi, he thinks to himself, what are you doing? Although it is clear to him, even in this darkness, that he has only himself to blame.
He says his goodbyes, and Mitsukuni nods, still consoling as ever, failing to muster enough cheerfulness to do any more. He looks like he wants to hug him, but can't. Takashi steps out of the house and into the daylight, and checks his watch.
Time to go home.
He is not surprised to find the girl from the party there.
He ran to the end of the garden. The gate was shut, but he pushed against the rusty lock so that it swung open. No one came after him. When he could not run any longer, he sat down on a large stone. Summer was over; it was already nearing the end of autumn. The seasons had never changed in the garden, where it was eternally summer.
All around him it became colder and colder.