8
# # # # # #
From a full-summer's bosom came air that was warm, yet benign. Earth broke into blooms, of colours bright: each a spectacle by day, by night. Leaf had come alive in this season. Was it her beloved's charm, his spirit that was calm? His blue, indeed, was a colour of lovers true. Lost she felt in his eyes, her love never waning, only wanting.
If boy of day was her spirit's heart, he was of night, her flesh's part. Sun sat in her darling's hair, overflowing against his swarthy cheeks. Still clumsy as boys, he stood hunched, right hand tucked into his belt. His brother's words stung him, and he did not know what to do with his other restless hand, which he swung back and forth across his body.
Angered—his Sharingan shone in the face that was cast in Nature's fine, beautiful mould that had no equal. Faint—spring's kisses existed on his cheeks, eyes blaring louder than words. He was furious. Naruto's head was bent, and sweat, in clusters, gathered on his chin.
She stood in the house's shade, wary of the young man left behind to live by his sibling's monstrous hands. He accused, taunted, blamed the man she loved. He said that Naruto betrayed him, and by his eyes, he haunted her soul. By looking upon his mien, she could tell that his words rang true, that his manner was true.
The boy from sun did not speak, eyes upon his brother now, his blue of the sweetest hue she had ever witnessed his eyes' frame. Upon his lips was silence's hold. His brother was bolder in dusk, red his armour, dark his strength. He could not understand why had Naruto not brought the Council to justice? Naruto had extended their service's duration in the Council for it was every Shinobi's wish, and he did things for the good of all. She did not understand him, too . . .
Naruto's yellowed cheeks, upon which smooth whiskers rested, compressed themselves into long threatening wrinkles. His blues shrunk down to tiny ink plops in the face, which appeared like a pink-daubed scroll. The man she was wedded to grabbed him by the collar, but her darling had no words, no smiles, no blues to appease his spirit.
"My hands are tied," he whispered. "Sasuke—I'm—I'm sorry . . . "
Letting go of Naruto, he stepped back, sun limning his body in clear lines. In his eyes, anger rested; upon his face, fury tested his resolve; and, this time, it seemed as though it was beaten. His flames did not simmer down, though he chose not to stand by his side and made to walk; but Naruto grabbed his hand, pleading.
He did not listen, jerked his hand free from Naruto's grasp, walked away. His village's shades fled to him, enveloped him, draped him; and in a moment, he was gone from her sight. She chose not to look upon him through her other vision, eyes upon Naruto's countenance.
Weary, he contorted his body into the shadow that was underneath the leaning tree. She went to him, hesitant, but still so in love. Her shadow, kindly, did not intensify dusk's shade upon him. At this, he looked up, and his blue brightened her soul.
"He'll be fine," he said, and his nose snorted the garden air back out. "He gets like this. Don't worry."
Smiling, she sat by his side, crossed her arms beneath her bosom, felt light and shadow play across her visage like shy children. He was quiet, looked at every part of the house which he could see, red spreading across his crinkling nose; and they sat like this till dusk was memory—night, melody . . .
At night, she sat at the house's threshold, a line between his world and her beloved's; yet he had not come. She did not think that he would with her share the glad tidings, love, lovely things; no, he allowed her to experience the beauty of his flesh—no more, no less.
Inside his garden, trees tossed and glistened as fish in nets; lights passed across their slickened limbs, stalks, as silver flowing. Wind came at her, hard and fast, hit against her eyes with a force she did not fathom. Summer's storms were not violent, not in her memories.
She fled from the threshold and went deeper into the room and watched water sluice across the floor like combers rolling in and crashing over a pebbled shore. The wood was soaked through, water kissing her feet, shimmering inside bubbles as lightning cracked overhead. Ah, this storm was mighty; and it would not let her sleep.
Stubborn—she went to bed and closed her eyes and rode out the storm that lashed this land's contours with a heart heartless. Till morning, it kept on, unrelenting. She did not know when she fell asleep, waking to greys and rains that still fell from the storm's underbelly, purples, blues, whites skittering, flittering, glittering inside its veins. It would not stop—where had he run off to?
Sun dipped, lost, and black broke out, free, beyond the storm, which was as alive as the night before. Her whole day was spent in waiting. The tea, which was still set on the low-table with rice-balls and cooked fish, had gone cold as the air outside. Like threads woven by this place's ghosts, its steam was gone.
Into night's depth, storm's wrath was reignited, and akin to flames forged in fury, lightning burnt the sky down in fracturing lights. Rain fell sideways in sheets, beating against the house, splattering on stones, splashing into the stream that overflowed its banks. Where was he . . . ?
His room in which he wrote his missives was darker without light's compassion; so she went to his table, lantern in hand that tossed out a blurry light. It brightened the aged female Kimono, upon which cranes darted, draped over a Kimono-stand in the corner. It was dusted . . . clean . . . ? Had he cleaned it . . . himself?
The mirror on the little low table by its side was broken, shards lay strewn about on the surface polished with care; they glittered, scattered snow-crystals by the holly pin and bamboo brush—she could see long light-warmed hair strands twisted round the teeth—his mother must have used; a child's toys, little stone soldiers and pinwheels and kendama, lay by the cushion; one of the wooden toys was broken as though the child had stepped on it in a hurry.
She sat down where he always sat and placed the lantern on the low-table and looked: everything was still, quiet, unmoving; winter, keen and cold, had visited upon this place on that night; and it never left. Looking down, she opened the drawer and saw many scrolls, missives he had written—to someone.
Then, too curious to stop now, she opened them one by one, her heart sinking at the sight of words that filled the scrolls with a deeply black ink:
Nii-San,
I was asked to marry a girl from the Hyūga clan that I don't know. They want to trap me in here. I can't say no. I have faith in Naruto that he'll come through for me—for us. Did I do the right thing in forgiving Leaf—forgiving them all?
I miss you . . .
The next . . .
Nii-San,
Naruto's distant. He evades my questions. The Council that decided our fate still lives. It hasn't faced the justice it deserves. You wanted me to change, and I did. I've tried, but it isn't easy. I can feel them all whispering behind my back about you, and I can't bear it.
Winter feels harsher without you . . .
. . . and the next . . .
Nii-San,
Spring approaches, but storms come harder. The house is too silent by day and too loud by night. Perhaps her presence will make it less quiet . . . I haven't gone back to your room. I wanted to, but I didn't.
What do they hope to gain from me? Am I to forget that they took you from me? My heart isn't that big . . .
. . . and the next . . .
Nii-San,
The tree in the garden has bloomed. Red camellia. Is it spring already? Time flies. It's been three years since you left me, yet it still feels like yesterday. The spot where we sat between the lanterns and talked has been over-taken by flora. I'd plant something there for you. Maybe you'd like it, look upon me, remember me from beyond the shore.
This season brings me no joy . . .
. . . and the next . . .
Nii-San,
Spring ends, and I see flowers drying up in summer's sun. It's warmer than I remember. The koi you and I fed in the stream flee to colder waters. They've learnt to abandon this place, too. The house fills with ghosts at night. Sometimes, I can hear you talking in your room. I go to your door, yet I turn back. What would I find in your room? What do I hope to find?
I don't know . . . perhaps I'd never know . . .
. . . and the next . . .
Nii-San,
Summer has come, and it burns me. Nii-San, what do you sound like? Your voice fades in my mind. I can see you, yet I can't hear you. My eyes can re-make you in my dreams without an end, but you're without a voice in my eyes. You speak to me, yet I hear nothing. You whisper through walls, but what do you say?
Are you hurting? I forgive you . . . Nii-San, I forgive you . . .
. . . and the next . . .
Nii-San,
Summer is hard. This house hurts me. It's loud. It doesn't allow you to speak to me. You still talk in your room. Why don't you come to me? Your voice is broken, or have my ears lost the capacity to hear you?
Is this what parting is like? I can't bear it . . .
. . . and the next . . .
Nii-San,
I went to your room. It was like the way you had left it. Light lay on your instruments, clothes, scrolls. The gift I had given you was gone. Did you take it when you left here?
I couldn't hear you. Do you only talk by night? I'll keep my ears keen for your voice . . .
. . . and the next . . .
Nii-San,
The men that ruined you—ruined us—enjoy the great seats. I feel mocked. There's nothing left for me to do here. Naruto lied to me. I won't forgive them. I can't forgive them. Even you don't speak to me anymore. Say that you'd hate me—that you'd forgive me—that you'd love me—even if I burn summer's leaves down. Say something! You're silent! Say something! Where have you hidden away from me? Where do you wait for me?
Your words grow fainter, and I'm frightened that I'll forget your voice completely. Nii-San, where should we meet? Should I bring you back to me from the power in me? Would you hate me? I don't fear your hate. I fear when you leave. I will find you. If not here, then another place.
The seed I planted doesn't grow. This place is cursed, and without you, it curses me more. I can't hear you anymore. I can't . . . Nii-San, I forgive you . . . I love you . . . always . . .
. . . and other missives that lay incomplete, tucked in-between these. Her lips trembled, and a sheen materialised across her eyes: he had not mentioned her name—not once. The house rang beneath her, and she felt him standing by the table, his shadow deeper than the ones that stood in the room. Afraid and startled and shocked that he had returned at a time like this, she sprang to her feet. His eyes, redder and deeper and darker than her blood, burnt in his face; and not in mimic anger, but true fury, his Sharingan located its mark.
She tossed out words of apology, but his hand rose. Trembling, she fell back, looking upon his hand that was still raised in the air. He told her to leave here and never return. The greatest movement of his voice was on the word near the end of his statement. He was lost—he searched—and she had no place in his heart . . .
Storm still attacked his village with violence, but she ran full tilt through the slanting rain, her bearing without a destination . . .
# # # # # #