Harvest

Chapter 52: Obon

In which a tiny boat bears a light, Kenshin dances, and the saké is good.

"This is the last night of Obon. Would you like to stay for the fireworks?"

The festival was in full, raucous sway, and the town's center was packed, its streets rivers of celebrants. They could hardly move without brushing against someone, threading their way through the crowd. Even children couldn't run and play as usual. When she had asked him to accompany her on the first day, neither of them had expected to enjoy it as much as they had. By this time, on the third and last day, they had spent much of each day in town, eating, watching puppet shows and magicians, drinking, acrobats and martial arts demonstrations, more eating, strolling along the lake's shore. A little more drinking. They had even both joined in the Bon-Odori, the communal dance that culminated the festival. The space around the tall platform that held the drummers and musicians was thick with what looked like the entire town. Young children and old men and women, farmers and fishermen, merchants and housewives, councilmen and jailers moved together around the circle in the traditional steps. It was his first time, so he needed her help in following the steps, but he was keen to try. Tonight's revelry was especially ebullient, and he thought at first she hadn't heard his question, so he put an arm around her waist and pulled her closer. In her ear: "Shall we watch the lights?"

She colored at this public display of their attachment, but turned and smiled at him. "Yes!" She had to almost shout to hear her own voice.

He grinned at hearing his wife's raised voice, took her hand, and led her away to a quieter spot. As they moved away from the noise and lights, the early evening's dusk and silence fell behind them like a curtain. When they reached the shelter of the big willow tree that overhung the river in the tiny park, he turned to her to offer her his idea. He wanted her to know that his intention was to help her honor her mother, and he thought he knew what he wanted to say, but here in the cool dark, with her face, her eyes, inches from his, he couldn't begin. He didn't want to presume, and he didn't want to cause her pain, and he couldn't find the words, and his heart was full of her, so instead he pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed her full on the mouth. He hadn't had her upbringing, and although he'd seen how other couples behaved in public, he didn't have the instincts for it. He released her and stepped back. "Forgive me."

But she didn't pull away. "Please don't apologize." She laid a hand on his cheek, and touched her forehead to his. "No one can see us here."

"I just wanted to tell you…" he began. No, that wasn't right. "For the festival…" No. The problem was that the festival was such a gay event, and what he wanted to give her was something tender and private. He knew that, in the years since her mother's death, she'd never had the freedom to express her own grief. She'd taken over her mother's role, propping up her broken father, rearing her rootless brother, keeping the family moored. In service at headquarters, she had worked and slept in the company of the other girls, hardly a moment to herself. And here on the mountainside with him…

She laid a hand on his arm. "It's all right. Just tell me what's in your heart."

"Your mother…" he began again. "It's quiet here, and perhaps you would like to be alone with her."

Her face softened into that rare, poignant smile that always cut straight to his heart. "I've never floated a light for her."

Even in the faint glow from the distant lights of the festival he could see her eyes shining. "Would you allow me to choose one for you?" She only nodded once, jerkily, but he could hear tears in her breathing. "Please wait here," he said as he gestured toward the split-log bench. "I won't be long." It was all he could do to leave her there, her pale kimono glowing in the moonlight and her beautiful grief cloaked by the night.

He did hurry. Earlier, he'd seen the lantern he wanted for her—the style in this region was a simple open-topped cube, but he'd seen one with a roof that looked like nothing so much as their own tiny home—so that was the work of a few minutes. The vendor took his coin, and, before handing it to him, lit the interior candle with a bamboo twig he touched to the candle at his elbow. He held it in both hands as he worked his way through the crowd back toward her. Almost there, his attention was caught by a saké seller's stall. For such a tiny space, it was remarkably well-stocked. One particular jug caught his eye. It was earthenware, and painted like the one his master had kept floating in the ice-melt river that ran by their training field. It even had the same kind of straw tassel hanging from its neck, though it was much smaller than the one that had supplied his master. Once, he had been allowed a sip from his master's bowl. He'd choked as fire filled his throat and then lungs, but the wine's heavenly flavor had burned itself into his memory. On a sudden impulse, he purchased the little flask, even though it was a little more expensive than he'd imagined, and tucked it into his obi, then picked up the lantern again. By the time he returned, he could tell she was more composed, and he was glad to have given her these few minutes to herself.

She rose from the bench as he approached, and kissed him on his cheek as she took the lantern boat. "Thank you, husband."

"I will wait for you at the river's mouth." He scratched the back of his neck and ducked his head teasingly: "Perhaps I'll find that nikuman vendor again while you're not looking."

He tilted his head in a little bow and turned to walk away. He didn't look back until he'd reached the crowd. Knowing he was hidden by the throng, he turned to check on her. What he saw made him want to run back, but he knew that would be a mistake. She was kneeling by the river's edge, with the little paper house nestled on her lap, but even from this distance, he could tell that she was weeping. She remained like that for a time, and he could only watch, his heart breaking for her, his arms aching to hold her. Finally, she set the boat on the ground, stood, and clapped her hands twice. After a moment with her head bowed, she stooped and, taking a tentative step into the shallow water, she reached the little boat out onto the water. It bobbed and circled, and then, catching the current, it moved out into the center of the river. He watched as the candle braved its journey alone, his own throat tight.

Later, they sat together on their porch watching the stars twinkling in the crisp black sky. Suddenly, out over the lake beyond the town, a rising star of light burst into a dazzling flower, and a second later the pop and fizz of the explosion reached them. The fireworks had begun. Something about that made him remember the saké. "Oh!" he said, making her flinch beside him. She looked at him with wide eyes, and he apologized. "Forgive me for startling you! I forgot something inside. Please wait a moment. I'll be right back."

He fetched the saké flask from underneath his folded hakama and kimono where he'd hidden it as they changed for sleep. The coals were still hot, so he loosened the stopper and nestled the bottle deep into the ashes. Despite the evening chill, he would use their summer tea bowls so that, in the nearly moonless dark, the stars would reflect on the wide surface of the liquid. He hovered his hand over the stopper until he felt a warm mist rise, then he tucked the two bowls into the sleeve of his yukata and, holding the flask gingerly between two fingers, one on the stopper and one on the flask's bottom, he went back outside and sat next to her. He poured the silvery saké into each bowl, and handed hers to her with both hands. "For us," he said as he picked up his own. She smiled, and they sipped together. The warmth of the wine and the cold of the night, the sparkle of the stars and the frisson of the fireworks, the shine of her eyes—he was happy.

The saké slid over his tongue, warm and sweet and fiery. He'd never tasted better.


A pale, waning crescent floats high above the cabin. In the crisp midnight sky, stars glitters like shards of glass against black silk. A small dormouse rustles its way through the faded garden, gleaning wilted leaves and leftover insects. On a branch high above, the small red owl, its yellow eyes glowing in the dim light, watches and waits. At the right moment, it will drop from its branch in its silent swoop, its eight razor-sharp talons ready to crush its unsuspecting prey.

She lay awake next to her sleeping husband, her head on his shoulder, riding the slow rise and fall of his breathing. He sometimes fell asleep first these fall days, but something was keeping her awake even longer than usual tonight. The scenes of this night's festivities kept running through her head. The huge circle of the Bon Odori, thick with dancers young and old moving together in the ancient steps. Her husband, glimpsed across the dense crowd, dancing with abandon and laughing with some boys near him, his hair ribboning around him as he clapped and leapt in time with his neighbors. The change had crept up on her, but she thought that, were it not for that hair, she might not recognize him as the same person she'd followed to this mountainside nearly half a year ago. His smile came easy now, as did his words, and they often laughed together over small things. She hadn't expected the quiet river and the glowing little boat, nor the bittersweet release of finally honoring her mother's spirit as she watched the paper craft float away on the black water, accompanied by a flotilla of fallen leaves releasing a scent something like cinnamon.

In secret, something in her heart had shifted over the summer. That day she'd watched his kata—the beauty of it, its expression of power and passion—had stayed in the back of her mind. Not for the first time, she wondered why it must be so inseparably linked to pain and death. He had a good heart and a strong mind. Was there no way for his skills to work for good? For life?

An audacious idea began to form in her. Could he, would it be possible, if she were to ask him carefully… Might he be willing to consider leaving Katsura? Perhaps she could plant a seed in his mind—the idea of living his own life, one devoid of violence and blood and murder. The life of a human. She wanted him to remain as happy as he looked at this moment. She wanted never again to hear him say, "I will not live for long." And she had to admit the truth: She wanted to be in that life, with him.