Natsume owns everything Harvest Moon

Natsume owns everything Harvest Moon.

When Shiba stumbled through the bamboo door of the vast, clay thatched hut, he retained an air of ignorance even as his father leapt to his feet from where he had just moments earlier been dozing on the bearskin rug, and began flailing his long, gnarled cane over his head, jabbering vehemently of Shiba's insolence. This had been the family home for ages, and family belonged there, not trespassing castaways. And somehow, through the blinding torrent of his father's rage, he maintained total obliviousness. He strode coolly past his own father, who was now in such a fit that his gaunt and usually wan face was flushed with outrage and disbelief.

Completely ignoring his fuming parent, he tread to the soft center of the rug and there knelt, gently depositing a thoroughly drenched and limp Claire upon the coarse red fur. He lingered a moment, gazing at her, and then rose warily. He could practically feel his father at his back. When he turned, to his surprise, the old man was staring down at the girl with cold eyes, but in them, to Shiba's confusion and bafflement, glinted mourn. When he opened his mouth to speak, his father held up a withered and many-lined palm and crossed to Claire's side, Shiba's eyes following his every movement in wonder. He crouched down immediately at her side though he seemed to shy away, afraid to touch her or even come too close. After all, she was a different race of human altogether, an outsider, a stranger. Nevertheless, he laid his hand hesitantly on her cool forehead, cringing but withstanding this "torture" for her sake. Or maybe it was for Shiba's? Whatever the case, he seemed to consider something for a moment, and then swiveled around to face his son, his face drained of color, and his eyes bleak.

"Son…" His voice cracked as he spoke, though Shiba could only guess it was from pure hatred for Claire. However, it seemed as though he had sorely misjudged his father, for instead, he explained grimly, "Sh-…she's-

Before he could finish, Shiba's heart leapt to his throat and he immediately felt woozy. His father seemed to sense it for he threw up both hands in a reassuring gesture and restated, "No…not dead. But, Shiba…how long she out in storm?" Shiba shrugged weakly. He was beginning to feel nauseous. Claire had nothing to do with it. It was his fault alone.

"Dunno, maybe hour…"

Wada considered this. "Hm. Well. That far too long for unadapted body." Shiba swallowed anxiously.

"Sh-she be alright though…right?" His father shrugged.

"She wounded…claw marks? And also freezing. She need new clothes."

"But we have no people clothes. Only leopard skin."

"Then that will do. No be picky! Get them. And your mother can dress her. We leave then, but first I must…heal her." His father spat out the last sentence like a bad taste on his tongue, but endured the "healing process" nevertheless. First, he tended to her wounds. He brought some moss from his medicine belt and clotted her free flowing wounds, and then lashed soft packed bark over them like bandages. As for thawing, which was to be done slowly and carefully, he placed her near the fire, but not too close to avoid instant defrosting and risk damaging her limbs or causing internal bleeding, and poured hot water stirred with a concoction of spiced honey and ginseng, which was to restore her strength and aid in her mobility when she was warm again. A blanket was draped over her, and then both men left the room, waiting just outside the door as Wada's humble wife tended to her clothing, in her own kind, motherly way carefully peeling away various cold, stiff garments and replacing them with soft, warm, but not so neatly cut, nor abundant leopard hide attire much like her son's. Wada and Shiba were then both promptly ushered back in, and Wada glanced distastefully at the sleeping girl, crinkling his nose though Shiba saw the glint of curiosity and pensiveness in his eyes when he passed. When the door slammed to his parent's own branch of the hut, they were truly alone.

Claire's breathing had transformed from shallow and ragged to even and deep, and he saw that her cheeks were slowly flushing and her eyelids had lost that pained expression that forewarned of the eyes beneath them. She looked cozy and totally at peace, and he found himself irresistibly drawn. After all, she was wearing jungle garb, the same that he wore, and seeing her clothed in his own attire, familiar and wild and fitting it, inexplicably warmed his cheeks. But he only stared, incapable of movement. He couldn't imagine her ever waking. It came as a slight jolt to his peaceful state of mind when she did. The corner of her mouth twitched, and then she stretched full out like a cat, feeling the warmth of a crackling hearth on her skin, and it was then that Shiba's desire faded into something like fear and guilt and shame. He could've actually killed her. That set him into a near dead run, and before she could open her bleary eyes and peer around, he was slamming the door behind him and already clambering to the roof top. The storm had peak and nearly subsided by then, and the watercolor grays and whites of dawn were soaking into an inky horizon. He bit his thumb as he sat there, brooding over the past events. Once out of pure angst and longing he dipped his head down over the lip of the roof to see in through the bamboo barred window, where Claire was up and about. Again, his heart ignited at the sight of her, a savage just like him in leopard hide, stalking around his own quarters. He managed to pull away, eyes darting this way and that. Would she ever forgive him? He sunk into silent thoughtfulness. If he were she…no, he wouldn't forgive himself just like that. He had done a terrible, life-threatening, cold-hearted thing to her. Any other day may have been acceptable to say the least, but at night in the middle of a monsoon? What had he been thinking? Once again, he found himself wracked with wrenching shame, and after a futile attempt of ridding himself of his mistakes with a few hard shakes of his head, he resorted to swinging amongst the jungle canopy. Perhaps his worries would be better forgotten there.

Now, here's the twist. Shiba had a cousin an island over. However, since birth, they had only ever seen each other once because of the yawning ocean between them. His mother's family had arrived on that island long ago, but some had been separated, as was the case with her sister, and she had borne a son, Hama. However, the single time that they had seen each other had been when Hama had roped a sea turtle and by chance it had drifted on past the island and he had been able to swim there, and later return on a makeshift raft. Hama had learned better English by his mother, who had been educated by her Caucasian husband. He had long ago died. But there was a drought there on the island, and as Hama's father was gone and his mother was sick, they had no choice but to return to their roots. And so it was, that very day around noon, when Claire was napping on the great bear rug and Shiba was just returning from his lengthy jungle escapade, that upon their shores washed a famished Hama and his sickly mother upon a crude raft of driftwood. Shiba was swinging the last distance when a flicker of movement caught his eye, and alighted on the ground, pelting the rest of the way through the jungle, skidding to a halt out on the baking sand. Hama stopped dead in the middle of the beach, his mother leaning heavily on his narrow shoulders. He grinned boyishly, and truth be told, the build of their faces was similar, though not so much appearances. Hama's hair was so dark brown that it was almost black, and his eyes equally dark, though his skin was creamy, unlike Shiba's. He had the traditional striped markings up his cheeks and arms, though his were olive green instead of orange, and instead of leopard skin sash, leggings, and sleeves, he had only long, dark ape hide knickers and a vine around him where the sash would be. After a long, calculating observation of one another the two boys greeted awkwardly, each unsure of what to say to the other. What do you say to a long lost relative? When Claire heard the commotion, she peeped through the window, awoken from her cat nap, and seeing Shiba and the equally short, stocky boy bearing his resemblance beside him and fast approaching, with an older woman hobbling along behind, she tore out the back way as fast as her stout legs would take her and clambered swiftly onto the rooftop. She decided it right then and there. Now that she had competition, she would have to prove herself further. This newcomer was obviously an islander, but she would show him, and Shiba, that she had what it took to take care of herself, and be equally wild.

Hope you liked this chapter, not so adorable with Claire and Shiba, I know, but I'm getting to it. Keep reading and review!!