Sandōkai
I. Ringing the Bonshō
"The world around you is secretly strange:
some details are charming and dated,
others precious and irretrievable,
but all fade into the quaint texture of the day."
— John Koenig
Sometimes I felt like repeatedly thanking Yamanaka Ren for his stupid schoolyard bully behavior.
Sometimes I felt like wringing Yamanaka Ren's neck until his body limply hung from my own two hands.
Anger and gratitude were a weird mix of emotions to have towards one person and if I wasn't so emotional about it all, I would logically point out to myself that maybe I was being a little selfish and should just choke Yamanaka Ren while thanking him. There was no harm in multitasking. Of course, violence was never the answer (there were consequences that I would be too bothered to face) because Yamanaka Ren was just a kid with too big of an ego.
Then again, I would be egotistical as well if my face was as pretty as his though.
Pushing the half-dead bonsai to the other side of the windowsill, my hand came up to swipe whatever loose dirt falling through the bottom of the pot's holes manufactured so the roots could breathe a little easy. This wasn't even my bonsai, it was Dad's, but I was being the good daughter that I was and taking care of it with what little bonsai-rearing knowledge I knew.
(Which was none.)
Waking up after living four-and-a-half years with no true sense of self had to be one of the most mentlaly exhausting things I had ever experienced, hands down. Most children around this age had awareness that they were themselves but humans spent a lifetime just finding who they were.
So of course waking up with an additional sixty plus years of a life already fully lived would set anyone off. There was no use trying to settle into my usual routine when I could barely remember what my daily routine was.
Rise at dawn, feed the chickens, begin breakfast for my grandchildren, take care of Dad's bonsai, begin embroidery on my daughter's kimono, practice katas, buy onigiri-Wait. That was all wrong.
Sighing, I pushed the shoji open, scattering the pot dirt onto the engawa. There would be time to clean it later, one thing at a time needed to be addressed. Like my disharmonious mind.
Picking up the bonsai in cradled hands, I carried it to the tokonoma and placed it carefully next to the okimono of a white glazed wolf, its inanimate gaze piercing. It was inappropriate to step into a tokonoma unless changing out decorations, and quite frankly, egregiously pitiful that I was putting in a half-dead bonsai as replacement for the ikebana arrangement that was changed every season.
The Yamanaka's sold practically all of the flowers and pre-made ikebana arrangements for the particularly lazy, but with my recent run-in with my least favorite of all Yamanakas, I was not keen on stopping at the closest flower shop. Dad had already changed the kakemono to the same scroll they reused every time Summer shifted into Autumn so all I would have to do is get the flower arrangement.
Usually changing out the decorations in the tokonoma would be done in a day as was proper, but Dad never followed the proper tradition of it all. This was the first time I would be adding something to the tokonoma as well.
Rubbing a hand over my eye, I stepped back, admiring the golden ginkgo on the kakemono with archaic characters that I struggled to make sense of. Maybe when I grew older I could learn how to read them, as literacy eluded me in both this life and the last. Having a second time around was exciting, but also sad when tatami nicer than my own replaced the threadbare, barely-hanging-on ones I had before. .
Only the more wealthy had tokonoma, but wealth was easily visible in the weird architectural mix of shoin-zukuri and honmune-zukuri that easily trumped the minka I used to call home. Nice tatami and actual rice-paper shoji along with golden painted fusuma screamed wealth.
Benzaiten-kami was surely looking after me, so I would be remiss to not thank her when I prayed. Of course, Benzaiten-kami was my main patron god, as I was considered an artist in my last life's line of work.
Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, the tatami crunched under my feet as I made my way through the halls, sliding doors open and passing empty room upon empty room before stepping out to the private courtyard that connected to my family's own rooms. This was a more private wing of the home. The tsuboniwa revealed by an open hall more similar to an engawa was obviously meticulously planted to create a space of zen and relaxation, from the lush greenery to the calming babble of water.
This was a home for a large family, a large clan, her mind urged, mentions of names of people long-gone echoing in her head. Hatake Niwamaru, Hatake Kuwa, Hatake Tenkara, Hatake Motokubi-They were people, just like I was and if I was trying so hard to not reel at the possibility of this again (another life, another chance, another place to call home), I would try and assimilate more of who I was this time around.
If it wasn't so funny that all of my ancestors in this life had names related to agriculture in some way, maybe I would've felt more sad. It was sad though, seeing all those empty rooms and knowing that years ago this place was home to a dozen more people.
Something had happened to leave the halls and rooms empty, that something whispering fervently in the back of my mind with words I could barely understand or hear. It was frustrating, remembering things you didn't remember. Except you did.
It was confusing.
There was something disquiet brewing in my stomach as I gazed out to the tsuboniwa, a knot of something as I tried to sort through my own emotions. Amusement, grief, gratitude, loneliness, anger, indifference, all made up the melting pot that was me. Perhaps the ancestor's who had built this courtyard garden had taken these emotions into mind when thinking of their descendents, because while it did not calm the storm inside me, it at least allowed me to center myself and focus.
There was a reason why the Gods took memory away when a soul was reborn; it upsets the harmony of their soul. Harmony was something I had always prized, blessings came to those who practiced virtue and life became less of a hassle when you locked away temptations.
Maybe it was harmony that had egoistical Yamanaka Ren rattling my soul and mind, giving me awareness of another life while Obon ended. My ancestors of this body had been satisfied, remembered for their sacrifices and thanked.
(There was a thought at the back of my mind that I would be celebrated at Obon by my departed body's children and grandchildren, then their children and their own grandchildren.)
Continuing the familiar path to where it was most familiar, I slid open the shoji to reveal an open room with a corner cut in privacy with a shoji-styled divider and an iko pushed to the wall closest to it, providing the dual purpose of hanging and displaying a rather lavish kimono that was definitely not my own, more in size for an adult woman.
It was beautiful though and before I knew it, I found myself running a careful hand down the silk treasure, marvelling over the work that had gone into something as fine and expensive as this. Cranes flew across the orange-yellow sky and lazy clouds dotted the silk-scape.
From a lifetime of wearing cotton-hemp kimono and yukata to touching the craftsmanship of something that went into this was honestly flooring. It wasn't as if I was working on fine kimonos either, but rather the knowledge of owning something as fine as this. Memories that floated in-and-out of focus like hazy dreams supplied faint imagery of liver-spotted hands steadily hand-stitching around the collar for the strength of the fabric. Money came and went when you had anywhere ranging from five to fourteen mouths to feed, no matter how praised your craftsmanship was.
(Dōura, Hakkake, Eri, Fuki, Furi, Maemigoro, Myatsukuchi, Okumi, Sode, Sodeguchi. Her eyes and hands found these easily, her mind still harboring knowledge of before)
A lifetime of knowing each and every part of a kimono replaced by names and unreadable characters of people I would never get to truly know. "Life was full of changing things", I used to always say, "It was the Gods' way of testing us."
I had traded slowly graying black hair for silver, a large but poor family for a small and rich one, and an elderly body for a young one with a chance at living again. I had been blessed with youth, wealth, and a family. Once upon a time, these were all things I prayed for when my stomach swelled with child and I glowed with the youth of a young woman.
Now, the only thing that I held onto with thankful familiarity is the language I have spoken for both of these lives, but even then there are small differences that I notice slip automatically in my mind. A different dialect, but all the same.
The only jarring difference was the world.
No one should have access to a mind the way Yamanaka Ren did. No one should have access to someone else's mind unless you were a God, and last I knew (from childish and blurred memories) Yamanaka Ren was the furthest thing from a divine being.
But there's a difference and I have always been one to not question blessings and curses all the same because life was simple when you put your head down. I had married a boring man, but he was good to me and blessed me with six children who all survived and brought a joy into my life that my first childhood-self wouldn't be able to comprehend. Demurity was good, but there were times when temper should be saved, for when it was revealed and subsequently unleashed, it left more of a lasting impact that could lead to change.
Like overriding her husband's choice of a groom for their youngest daughter. (Even now with vivid clarity I could recall the shocked look on Hayashi's face as I unleashed my full displeasure and fury when he entered our daughter into an engagement with a boy known for his cruelty of stringing up the village cats. Needless to say, the engagement was quickly broken and I had picked Fushimi's boy who went fishing from dawn till dusk at the river nearby.)
There are books stacked in a corner, some tucked under the wardrobe. If I was literate, I would whole-heartedly pour over the contents in one, but because I wasn't, I could only grab a few to flip through and admire the pictures. Books were expensive, books with pictures moreso, and there is a small ball of frustration as all I can do is admire the elegant brushstrokes and depiction of a snarling wolf that I think is Ōkami-sama, mighty and divine.
I flip through more pages, coming to a stop at a peculiar page that when I flip to the next, is similar. This continues for the rest of the book, with only one set of characters popping out the most repeatedly as lines connect one to others and so on.
Closing the book, I set a lofty but possible goal for myself: Learning how to read. It would prepare her more, and as a daughter of a house that obviously holds money, it would be only certain that her goal would easily be in grasp.
Children learn things faster than the elderly; my adult children struggled with the more complicated stitches I knew and had regretfully taught them later in life, but after showing and practicing them with my older grandchildren, I privately concluded that it was only normal given the curiosity and trouble kids liked to get into. They knew more things that annoyed you than you thought what annoyed yourself.
I can only hope that learning faster can apply to myself as well because I am a child, but I am also old and weary in the far recesses of my mind that wants to do nothing but sleep. Neatly returning the books where they belonged, I shook out my yukata sleeves to come down over my wrists, moving around the rather minimalist room and snooping through my own things.
Would it count as snooping if I was looking at my own stuff? A different me, but all the same.
It's as I am pulling things out of a deep chest-wooden toys, a stuffed wolf, and what obviously used to be origami animals squashed under the weight of everything else-that I find a long box that holds my attention for the skilled hand that had carved such beautiful patterns onto the top as well as the simple iron lock keeping me from opening it. Digging a bit more finds merit as I toss out a temari ball that jingles with each bounce and rolls away, to reveal a worn iron key.
It fits in my hand easily, no longer than my thumb and fits into the lock with a simple click that has the box popping open, creaking quietly on its small hinges. There's multiple things inside ranging from an old silk furoshiki that is undoubtedly holding jewelry inside as I lift it and soft clinks of metal let confirm my suspicions; it sits alongside a comb that has lost its wooden sheen from sitting idle too long, but I admired the painted chrysanthemum and persimmon motif. An old cloth omamori sat innocently with the one character I can read-for I have seen it so many times, had prayed with it so many times-marking longevity for its holder.
Almost reverently, I lift the omamori, fingers tracing over its patterns and design, feeling the soft rasp of old cloth. Could it be this prayer, held too long in that box, finally brought the attention of Fukurokuju-kami?
It would not be the first time gods have meddled with mortals and I sincerely doubted that it would ever be the last. Just as they were giving and kind, they raged and sewed disharmony into the world when they felt like they were slighted. In days of old, before man had laid their feet upon the ground, the world was much more confusing. Inhabited by the divines, their squabbles and arguments along with their love and agreements making way for the mountains, valleys, and rivers I knew as home.
Lifting my hand away from the amulet, I patted down the sides of my own kimono. This body was not yet old enough to don a proper obi and so I lacked a place to store the omamori. It would be about another three years until I could graduate from cords to an obi to hold together my kimono.
So, like any child, I turned to the neatly rolled up futon in the corner, eyeing it speculatively. Parents often went through their own child's things when they were absent, no matter what they said otherwise. I was guilty of this crime, but more so with my own sons-honestly, if they didn't want me going through their things, they should've learned to clean their own spaces, heavens knew I lectured them enough about it.
So, aside from my better judgement, I shuffled on my knees across the room to shove the amulet into the futon, trying too hard to not stare at the size and shape of my much smaller hands. Job done, I turned back to my trunk, lifting the box to lock it once again and setting aside the key to find a better hiding spot after I put everything away.
The furoshiki did hold jewelry, gold, jade, and silver twinkling back up at her. Some pieces were inlaid with precious stones and some had designs that I could only marvel over. They were absolutely exquisite, but also definitely not appropriate to have at my young age. There was a niggling feeling at the back of my mind and I ignored it to pick through the jewelry. There was a pair of hairpins, but they were not a matching set, with one made of fine amber and the other of jade. These caught my eye the most and I set the pair next to me on the tatami before picking up a bracelet much too big to fit her thin, childish wrist.
There were a few smaller pieces amongst the pairs of earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and rings. Charms, with more than one of them holding a similar pattern of cross-hatches and a few others with the typical pattern mirrored on omamori signalling good luck or fortune. She turned a smaller jade stone over in her hand, a red silk string looped through the hole at one end if the wearer to attach to a hair accessory or obi if they so wished.
Actually...I picked up one of the hairpins-the amber one-squinting at the abstract design and picking out the same cross-hatch pattern. The jade one was more plain, showing the cross-hatch plainly with little flourishment than on the edges to hold the jade piece all together.
Hatake, my mind supplied as I set the hairpins back down and folded the jewelry back into the silk cloth's gentle hold. I secured the ends in an easy-to-undo knot, so as to not have it actually knot and become unable to open without ruining the furoshiki.
Just as I was to set the bundle back into the box, I paused, frowning at the white edge peeking from under the side of the box. Carefully fingering the edge, I pulled what I thought to be parchment, almost gasping at the image on it.
My eyes latched onto the figures in the picture, almost bewildered. The image was glossy and smooth and incredibly life-like. Whatever was used to paint did not hold the same stroke and hand like painters before, but rather each line of each person was given such life-like quality that I could not help but stare.
My countenance smiled back at me, and I knew it was me even if I've never looked into the mirror since regaining my memories back, because my mind processed the face with an easily familiarity. Besides, it was common sense as me in the picture looked to be barely older than a year old, with rounded black eyes and a bushy shock of silvery hair, a feminine adult hand settled over my stomach that I traced up to the woman who was my mother. She was the only one in the photo with a more natural coloring of brown hair and eyes. Tattoos marked her face and while normally such mutilation of one's body would have me cringing and shying away, it fit the widely smiling in a way that gave her a fierce charm
Dad, my mind supplied, my gaze falling on the strong lean build of the man in the photo, both of my parent's children obviously inheriting his shocking coloring. He was handsome, with an easy-half smile only amplifying that. The toddler who was held in his arms looked rather bored, half-lidded black eyes staring back at me. And so with easy deduction, he was nī-san.
With much more careful hands and an adult's way of organizing, there was more space in the trunk than before, with the contents carefully arranged as to save what space there was in the best possible way.
There would be no use in hiding the key under the tatami, they were changed out to keep clean after years of use and I wasn't sure on how my family now treated the flooring. Tatami were expensive and while I had made good money in her old life, I was careful to not spend a coin where I didn't have to.
The box was definitely more precious than the rest of things I owned, if not monetarily then in sentiment. The worth of something did not always have to be measured by finery or beauty, but rather how dear it was to somebody.
This, I decided, was ultimately precious. There was meaning to it, there was care to it that I understood and didn't at the same time. I had lived a life of two, and while one of those lives had spanned into my sixties while the other only peaked at four-and-a-half, I was one and the same.
Closing the trunk, I heaved a small sigh. The key felt warm in my palm and I padded over to the fine kimono from earlier, sliding small fingers in and over the fabric until I found the spot I was looking for to slip the key into its expansive folds. It would be safe there for the time being.
I sucked on my teeth, shuffling back on my knees until I fell backwards, my legs unfolding from under me and bouncing on the tatami as I spread eagle.
The weather was always a gamble this time of year, Fire Country-
My eyes shot open, staring up at the ceiling with incredulity.
Fire Country?
I curled my toes, clenching them in the same nervous habit I always had. I had never heard of a place called Fire Country, but the name easily slipped into my mind naturally.
Okay, I breathed, it's just something new, just like all of this. New.
I closed my eyes again, willing something to give me the clarity of my home like I held hours ago.
"What are you doing." A flat, monotone voice broke over the forced zen of my concentration and I quickly blinked my eyes open, turning my head to the open shoji that I obviously didn't hear open in my concentration.
"Concentrating." I replied.
"Why."
"Was that a question or statement?" I ask, watching the darker gray of his brows furrow at my question.
"Heiya," his arms crossed, something vaguely disappointed radiating off his person, "You promised you would wipe down the eastern side of the engawa if I did the rest."
"Sorry nī-san, I must've forgotten. I had to use Dad's bonsai as a replacement for the ikebana on our takemono." I wince, both the action and the words escaping me before I could think. My eyes widen and I'm sure my brother takes the action as me further proving my forgetful innocence because he just snorts, looking away from me and down the empty hall from where he must've come from.
"It's fine. I did it anyway. I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me to Asahara-san's," his dark eyes traced over me and I was struck by how oddly mature he behaved, "If you don't feel like it then it's fine, I'll grab your gyōza."
I stared at him, his lips pursing into a frown as each second ticked by with silence. He crossed the room, coming to a crouch in front of me and pressing the back of his hand over my forehead, his brows knitting.
"You feel a little warm. Did you sleep with your covers off again?" He asked, dark eyes flickering down to meet my own matching pair.
My tongue darted out to moisten my lips, which had suddenly gone dry. I gave him a smile, but there was no doubt he noticed how strange and nervous the action looked. "I-Yes. I must've. I've been feeling unwell for awhile."
Shifting back on his haunches, my brother sighed. "You need to stop leaving your shoji cracked open."
His tone was rather neutral, but I could detect the scolding tone interwoven with his words. The shock of silvery hair that matched my own seemed to flash in the warm lighting of the room, conjuring the image of the man who was the original holder of such unnatural color. And it was unnatural, even if you argued that age turned hair on the spectrum of a dark peppered gray to a bright white. It was unnatural in the sense that the pair of children he had, had inherited it.
"Where's dad?"
My brother seems to freeze at this question as he gets back up, standing tall to his full height. His build is proportionate, but there is a hint of lankiness in his limbs that hints at him growing tall. I can only hope for the same, for my short height in my last body had left me wearing geta an inch taller than others to make life a bit easier on my impressively short build.
"He's busy." Comes the clipped reply.
I bite my lip. "Doing what?"
"You know what."
I pause, because I really don't. One side is screaming something about classifications and the other speaks of a peddler who sold his wife's woven hemp.
"I'll be off then. Get some rest, we can eat in your room." He nods his head to the room, dark gaze sweeping over it before settling on me. "And close your shoji, Heiya."
I tilt my head to him, lowering my eyes almost demurely. "Yes, nī-san."
Kakashi-nī drags in a low tea table to eat on, the curious white bag crinkling its mystery material as he pulls out equally mysterious white boxes, placing two in front of me and handing me a pair of wooden chopsticks that I puzzle over how to separate until I see him pull them apart.
I copy his actions, struggling to open the box before Kakashi-nī sighs, deftly opening it and placing it in front of me firmly.
"You always struggle with those."
I shrug, adjusting my hold on my chopsticks before snapping up a carrot. There are things I have not learned and it comes to me as a small relief that one of those things is opening these boxes is something that is as clueless to me in this life.
...I'd really have to stop referring to either of my lives as separate if I wanted to merge and assimilate my memories together as fast and seamlessly as possible.
"Have you considered attending the Academy yet?" Kakashi asks, dipping the edge of his fried eggplant in the soy sauce saucer.
"Not yet." I replied, digging for another mushroom. The cook who prepared the meal obviously had a talent for it was simply divine. How spoiled I was.
"Have you...considered it?"
I hum around a bite of beef, my brother frowning across from me. His chopsticks are held loosely in one hand, a piece of onion held delicately by its peeling skin.
"What do they do?" The rice is covered in a sticky sweet-yet-savory sauce that oddly reminds me of a sweet.
Kakashi sighs, "Just day you don't want to go instead of playing dumb all the time, imōto. Dad's not going to be mad if you become a civilian."
There's an unstated, but I will be, behind my brother's words that linger more on disappointment than anger. Almost lethargically, my mind conjures up a building with children milling behind tall walls dividing the Academy from the rest of Konoha.
There, I latched onto the memory, furrowing my brows and focusing. More words flew into my mind, places and things that I knew and didn't.
Konohagakure-no-Sato, Hokage, Tetsuryū Weapon Shop, Inuzuka—
"—eiya. Heiya." A harsh flick to my forehead has me crashing back into the moment, blinking rapidly at the annoyed look on Kakashi's face. "If you're not going to listen then just go to bed."
I make a face that he doesn't catch, his eyes lowered back down to his food, methodically picking out the slivered pieces of garlic in his food.
"I'm listening," I grumble. Is this how my children spoke to each other when myself or their father weren't around? "I just feel odd."
"That's because you slept with your covers on. With your shoji open. Again." He flicks his chopsticks at me in accusation.
"No—"
"Yesss." Kakashi interrupts, dragging out the word with a bland look. His silver hair sways like a peculiar looking cloud, managing to make his head tilt look chastising somehow.
I wrinkle my nose at him. "Yamanaka Ren made my mind feel funny."
This catches his attention, his slight slouch in posture straightening over the short table. He shuffles in his spot, his chopsticks placed down neatly.
"When was this?" He asks almost commandingly.
I shift from one side to the other, biting my lip concertedly and trying to figure out when I gained full awareness of my last life. "Three...maybe four days ago? We got into a fight at the park and he did something weird."
Kakashi leans back, tilting his head up to the ceiling and letting out a great sigh. "Let's tell Dad about it when he gets home before anything. Just...stay away from the park for now."
I nod, "Okay."
Kakashi grumbles something about clans and dumb kids, gathering his food together and shoving everything back into the bag he got it from before sweeping out of my room.
I finish my meal by myself, puzzled on where to dispose of the rest before I shrug and push the table away from the center of the room. Nī-san will take care of it, like he always does, is the ringing statement in my mind.
I roll out my futon, the omamori falling out. I undo the cords around my kimono and sigh, picking up the amulet and shuffling under the covers.
It's warm in my hand and in the orange light of the fading sun lighting my room into a glow behind shoji that led out to another courtyard, I stared at the omamori as the sun began to set, sinking my room into a cold, dark night where my eyes began to droop sleepily.
I dreamed of an old woman spinning silk, her wheel sitting upon an open field with only moonlight to guide her hand. The grass rustled, swaying gently in tune to the soft creak of the wheel. Somewhere, across the field, a wolf howled.
Yes, here I am, starting another story. I'm honestly not sorry about it mainly because how much I have enjoyed writing this. My writing style may be ugly but there are times where I pull through!
Let's go over some vocabulary used in this chapter.
Heiya (平野): Plain Field
Tokonoma (床の間): A recessed space in a Japanese-style reception room, in which items for artistic appreciation are displayed. There are certain rules in what to display and how to receive guests in the room with the toko. Decorations change seasonally, with an ikebana display being one of the most common items in a toko.
Ikebana (生け花): A minimalist flower arrangement typically portraying acknowledgement and seasonal changes that sparks joy. Arrangements should be seen as a specific moment in time—like a snapshot or portrait in reverence to a season.
Kakemono (掛物): A Japanese hanging scroll used to display and exhibit paintings and calligraphy inscriptions and designs mounted usually with silk fabric edges on a flexible backing, so that it can be rolled for storage.
Okimono (置物): Basically a display ornament typically seen in tokonoma or butsudan altars.
Engawa (縁側 or 掾側): An edging strip of non-tatami-matted flooring, usually wood or bamboo. The ens may run around the rooms, on the outside of the building, in which case they resembles a porch or sunroom.
Obon (お盆) [Bon, 盆]: Is an annual festival celebrated to pay homage to one's ancestors in which graves are cleaned and household altars are revisited.
Shoin-zukuri (書院造): A style of residential architecture used in the mansions of the military, temple guest halls, and forms the basis of today's traditional-style Japanese house.
Honmune-zukuri (本棟造): Is typically a square plan with a gabled, board-covered roof topped with a bird-like ornament called a suzume-odori. This build is typically wider.
Machiya (町屋 and/or 町家) are traditional wooden townhouses.
Fusuma (襖): Vertical rectangular panels which can slide from side to side to redefine spaces within a room, or act as doors.
Tsuboniwa (壺庭 ): A tsuboniwa is a small, zen garden typically found within areas formed by the junction of buildings, under the overhang of roofs, or between buildings.
Benzaiten (弁才天): Is one of the Seven Lucky Gods in Shinto. She is given the attributes of financial fortune, talent, beauty and music among others. She carries a biwa, a Japanese traditional lute-like instrument and is normally accompanied by a white snake. She is the patron of artists, writers, dancers, and geisha, among others.
Fukurokuju (福禄寿): Is one of the Seven Lucky Gods in Shinto with origins from China and is sometimes omitted from the group or confused with Jurōjin. He is the god of wisdom, luck, longevity, wealth and happiness. The Chinese Song Dynasty believed him to be the reincarnation of the Taoist God Hsuan-wu. Moreover, he is the only god who was said to have the ability to resurrect the dead.
Furoshiki (風呂敷): A traditional Japanese wrapping cloth, traditionally used to transport clothes, gifts, or other goods.
Dōura, Hakkake, Eri, Fuki, Furi, Maemigoro, Myatsukuchi, Okumi, Sode, Sodeguchi are all parts of a kimono.
Random Hatake Ancestors:
Hatake Niwamaru (畑庭丸): Farmland Garden Circle
Hatake Kuwa (畑桑): Farmland Mulberry
Hatake Tenkara (畑テンカラ): Farmland Fly-Fishing
Hatake Motokubi (畑元首): Farmland Neck-Trowel
I went with the farmer/farmland theme with the Hatakes and I am utterly unashamed of my choice. I know an Inuzuka mother for Kakashi is well, cliché, I couldn't imagine a different choice and either way, I have a plan for this choice later.
This story will lean heavily on world/cultural-building and is actually inspired by Umei no Mai's wonderful Compass of Thy Soul/Direct Thee to Peace series. If you haven't read it, then you are seriously missing out on some awesome worldbuilding.
Updates for Stolen Regrets and Merope are in progress and I aim to post an update for either one this week. It's been busy for me (as always) and I'll get right to those updates! I hope you all enjoy Sandōkai just as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
As Always,
M.B. Westover