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Chapter 43

Haku

A welcome reprieve from Asheno finally arrived with the coming of the "good half" of autumn in September: our first year of high school at Karori. At last, summer had ended. I knew we had more tribulations ahead of us, but at least we could leave the main estate and not be under Asheno's watch all day and night. Last night, when our esteemed head gathered us together, he insisted on having us return to the main estate immediately after classes ended everyday. I glanced at Hatsuharu, and he likewise rolled his eyes. Undoubtedly we'd be able to erode that rule, because it was inevitable various school commitments would surface. A few chauffeurs might get fired for "laxness" in their failure to escort us back home on time, but my desire for freedom beat out my social conscience.

Lhurone and Hatsumi would be exempt, naturally, since they needed to be home-schooled. They'd fallen too far behind in their education to attend high school with the rest of us. Lhurone took a rather philosophical perspective to home-schooling, saying, "Well, I did play hooky from age ten on up" with a casual shrug. However, Hatsumi is much trickier because he tried to conceal his difficulty reading for a long time. As a result, we're very careful to avoid the subject around him.

Most of the rules Asheno gave us last night were ridiculous. For example, no friends. Of course some of the other Dzuni will sneak around that one. Both Khosure and Shuro are too social, and enjoy being the center of attention. Shuro's theatrical flair is surprisingly well developed for a native of Lhose (Gods, I never thought we'd return to Lhasa). I agree with Tori that I'd be utterly depressed if I had to actually live in that hellhole. Frankly, Shuro's dramatic tendencies irritate me often. I tolerate her only because Hatsuharu has clearly fallen for her and she's a tortured Dzuni like the rest of us. (Khosure joked that the moment Shuro revealed her true gender was when Hatsuharu became smitten with her. Unfortunately for Hatsuharu, that joke has stuck.)

Well, no, I don't hate her…that is much too harsh. It makes me sound as judgmental as Faran-Zhuku. When I see Shuro trying to adjust to being a girl after so many years being dressed and treated as a boy, moving to a new, very different city, becoming part of a dark and mysterious family, and attempting to hide all her insecurities with her outgoing personality, I pity her, and I have to give her some credit for bearing up reasonably well. She's had a few crying fits that left servants sweeping broken glass afterwards and an ache in my sensitive ears.

Only four more Dzuni to go—the rat, rabbit, monkey, and Asheno's much-loathed cat. Asheno told us the rat, rabbit, and monkey would be starting school at Karori the same time, and they'd move to the main estate after settling in at Karori. He said nothing about their characters, and if the last summer and spring indicate anything, it means these new Dzuni are giving him trouble. I expect school will be a circus, then, if the rat, rabbit and monkey are anywhere near as disturbed as the rest of us.

Once again, Asheno brushed off my questions about the cat with the same excuse: "There have been unforeseen difficulties. He will arrive later in the semester. I don't particularly like that Dzuni spirit, so it doesn't matter greatly to me, anyway." The corner of his mouth twitched as a disgusted look flickered across his face. Thus, I know nothing more about the new cat besides his being a man. Eh well, I can't think too much about it if he's not here.

Speaking of absences, Faran-Zhuku fell silent after finishing the tale of the curse's breaking. I haven't heard even his familiar rumbling growl for three weeks, but I can still sense his presence within me. At first, when I hadn't heard anything for a week, I panicked and thought he'd died. Then, I became surprised I was upset over his possible death. In the dead of night, I suddenly felt a chill ooze through my body, and instinctively knew he still existed. Afterwards, I was just tired and relieved—relieved that he wasn't dead and that he was leaving me alone. My worn-out body has recovered nicely during the last three weeks, and I'd forgotten how wonderful it is to walk without the queer lightheadedness from sleep deprivation and the fatigue that seemed to weigh my limbs down with rocks. Faran-Zhuku is a part of me, but he may kill me someday.

Today, as I walked through the black gates enclosing Karori, I was the least nervous of all the first-year students. The visions acquainted me so well with the school's grounds and interior that I practically had no trouble finding my way around. Karori had been renovated heavily, thanks to donations from the Shomas and other rich Mhagenu families, since the time of the curse's end. The crumbling brick and masonry have been restored, and a new gym built with modern equipment. The faded paint and scratched floors have been retouched, or in some cases, replaced. Everything at Karori shines now, much more so than I ever saw in the visions. It was quite a renovation job, since the school is large enough to accommodate 4,000 students. Very easy to lose yourselves among the masses of students, it is. Karori is a fairly easy place for a boy possessed by a half-crazy wolf ghost to hide his secrets.

The flip side of my special advantage was being subject to flashbacks of what had occurred within these hallways and classrooms. Ironically, I'd been assigned to the same homeroom class that Huki, Lhadoman, and Lhoru once belonged to: 1-6. None of my fellow Dzuni were in 1-6. As I sat in my desk in the back of the room, listening to my elderly male teacher stumble over pronunciation as he called the roll for the first time of the year, I kept recalling the scenes between Huki, Lhadoman, and Lhoru in this classroom. The curious glances my classmates gave me made it clear my exotic looks would make me stand out as much as I did at my old school. Suddenly I found myself wishing some of the other Dzuni were in the same class, so I wasn't the only one getting stared at. I concentrated on ignoring my classmates, and paid no attention to the teacher's announcements. His voice was so quiet that I doubted many of the students could hear, anyway. More pressing issues demanded my time, such as how to break free of Asheno's grip.

In Hothan high schools, first-years have the same standardized and mandatory curriculum. No elective subjects are allowed the first year; instead, students take classes in writing, Hothan history (into which an introduction to Hothan arts and music is woven), physical education (the most hated class), advanced algebra combined with beginning calculus and geometry, Hothan literature, and basic chemistry in one term and biology in the other term. Half the first year classes studied chemistry the first term while the second half studied biology, and vice versa for the second term. The first term lasts for four months, with a month-long break during the harshest period of the winter, and then the second term runs for three and a half months.

After the first year, students took classes based on their first-year teachers' recommendations. Advanced classes in the four central subjects (math, science, history, and literature) were available, and electives in music, art, theater, and dance also became options. Karori, thanks to its plentiful pool of rich funders, was renowned for its arts programs. Of course, numerous clubs, teams, and activities operated, from sports to community service to arts and crafts. That was how first-years usually found outlets to stand in for the elective classes closed to them.

Currently, 3,780 students were enrolled at Karori. Incoming first-years were assigned to a homeroom of no more than 30 students. For each of the three years at Karori, approximately 40 homerooms existed. In the case of first-years, their homerooms remained in the same classroom for most of the day, the students moving only for the science and physical education classes. The various first-year subject teachers would move from classroom to classroom.

This traditional theory of education came into being to provide more stability for first-years during what could be a shaky transitional year, but in Shoma Shala's personal opinion, it only resulted in more sleepy students. That had been her experience when she was a high school student as recently as four years ago. She often had three classes in the same room, which meant sitting in the same seat for three hours straight. By the end of those three hours, Shala mused to herself, her heartbeat was barely audible, she'd be so bored. Besides, she'd prefer forcing the students to move rather than the teachers. If the students were already being pressed to exercise in physical education classes, some extra walking wouldn't hurt them.

Shala gathered the materials for her class. She would teach first-year Hothan literature for six different groups of first-years. All her concerns about facing her homeroom students vanished as she swore, unable to find her class roster. Papers containing announcements and the Hothan Literature Department Policy Book crashed onto the floor in front of Shala's cramped cubicle as she embarked on a desperate search. Her cubicle was only a little wider than twice her width, and her elbows kept smacking into the flimsy barriers separating her from her neighbors. "Hey, you, stop that noise!" snapped her cranky, overly made-up neighbor from the left. Shala cursed her father for passing on his penchant for messiness to her, then discovered the attendance sheet crumpled between the pages of a cheap fantasy book she'd just started. Shoving in her plastic chair, Shala grabbed her books and papers, and flew out the department office's door.

"Damn, late for my first homeroom!" muttered Shala. The Hothan Literature Office was located in the midst of the largest first-year locker area in the school, and consequently terrified first-years repeatedly dodged the angry-looking Shala as they rushed to their respective homerooms.

"Oh, Shoma, wait!" Groaning softly, Shala stopped and turned around, facing the speaker. It was her ancient academic mentor, a fellow Hothan Lit teacher who'd been at Karori seemingly since the day it was built seventy-five years ago. Neli, as she had insisted Shala call her, stood barely to Shala's shoulders, and squinted through thick glasses whenever they spoke.

"Yes?" When Neli had something to say, there was no stopping it. A voice inside Shala's mind screamed in frustration as Neli smiled kindly and opened her mouth to speak.

"Now, dearie, there's something important I forgot to tell you," Neli whispered, so no students would overhear. "You are a Shoma yourself, so I'm sure you're familiar with this already—" The voice screamed again as Shala realized she was about to be bombarded with more Shoma anecdotes. Unfortunately, Neli had taught all of her older siblings. In such moments as these, Shala always thanked the gods she'd chosen a different high school—it would've been intolerable to listen to Neli reminisce about Shala as a student. "If you have any Shoma students outside of your immediate family," continued Neli warningly, "try not to become in any major incidents that would get their family head involved. Academic, disciplinary, or otherwise. We always solve problems with Shomas as quietly and privately as possible. They're donors we can't lose." Neli dropped her serious look and smiled pleasantly. "Now, I'm sure you're already late, so shoo. Good luck with your first classes!" With that farewell, Neli began shuffling away from Shala.

Now Shala really was late—ten minutes late. She virtually ran, while fuming at Neli for seeing Shomas only as walking bank vaults. Finally, after descending one set of stairs and walking halfway down a hallway, Shala stood in front of Homeroom 1-23. Shadows floated behind the frosty glass window set into the door. Good, the students hadn't left despite her late arrival. She froze, still panting, and saw a sweaty outline where her hand had been gripping the now horribly crushed class roster. Setting the roster on top of her pile and smoothing it as best as she could, Shala took a deep breath and opened the door.

The soft murmurings subsided quickly as heads looked towards the door. Shala had eyes only for the podium, and lay her pile on the shelf under the surface.

"Good morning," Shala said in a clear voice that didn't betray her anxiety, and made eye contact with her students for the first time. Her tense muscles gradually relaxed as she saw many pairs of eyes reflecting the same anxiety and terror. "I'm sorry I'm late. My name is Shoma Shala, and I'll be your homeroom and Hothan Literature teacher for the year. We'll start by doing the roll call."

Feeling that the worst was over, Shala peered at the first name. "Please tell me if I don't pronounce your name correctly, okay? Let's see…Ashu Khezuke?"

"Here," responded a deep yet timid voice. Shala turned her head to the right, and her stomach then sank as though filled with rocks. The voice's owner sat behind a girl who resembled her uncle Hathori perfectly. The girl examined Shala politely yet critically. The boy sitting behind her, Khezuke seemed huge and muscular to Shala—his knees were jammed against the bottom of his writing surface—but what struck her most were the numerous scars crisscrossing his exposed arms and his face. Good heavens, thought Shala, what kind of accident was he in? Then it occurred to her that he looked quite a lot like her aunt Khagura, who used to be the Dzuni pig. Khezuke had the same brown eyes and hair color, and the same shy personality.

"Um…excuse me, Ms. Shoma, but is there something you want to ask?" Khezuke asked hesitantly, stooping almost imperceptibly.

"I'm sorry, Khezuke, I was thinking about something I had to do." Shala fought the red blush threatening to creep up her neck and resolutely continued with the roll call. The Hathori-lookalike answered when Shala called out "Zhuruth Hotohori." She even has the same name as Tori, thought Shala. There were no other suspect Dzunis or Shoma students in 1-23. The flustered teacher's voice of reason cautioned her not to jump to conclusions, and pointed out that Hotohori and Khezuke had different surnames and might not even be related to the Shomas. Shala delivered the beginning-of-year announcements, then proceeded with her lesson plans.

The day passed in a disembodied sort of way for Shala. Homeroom proved to be merely the first of many Shoma encounters. The characters from the Dzuni family stories her father had reluctantly told his children seemed to have come to life. While walking to her second class, she passed a clone of her uncle Hatsuharu chatting with an energetic silver-haired boy, another Ahame. A blonde girl in her second class possessed the same hyper, bouncy aura as Nharu, who now lived in Gogotha but visited frequently in Lhasa. Shala saw the Hatsuharu clone again in her third class, and he gauged her just as carefully as she'd noticed Hotohori doing. Seeing the name "Shoma Hatsuharu" on her class list jarred her, and afterwards, she heard a girl whisper to a neighbor that the teacher looked a little pale, maybe sick.

Shala failed to notice Shuro in her fifth class, since Shuro didn't fit any known Dzuni profiles. Her sixth and final class fell during the last period of the day, and it passed without any incident. Feeling overwhelmed at the Shoma surge, Shala slowly padded back to the Hothan Lit office, and her disordered cubicle.

"Excuse me?" a familiar voice rose above the general din in the hallway, as she turned the corner towards the Hothan Lit office's corridor. Shala started, but paid no attention.

"Excuse me?" The voice came more insistently, and it was closer. Shala paused in her step, listening, and trying to remember where she'd heard the voice before. "Excuse me, are you Shoma Mahalina?" The speaker was next to her. Shala gasped and dropped her books.

The boy standing near her had the same features as her father, excepting a more olive skin tone and a countenance that hinted at the existence of a fierce wildness. The image of a caged animal rose to Shala's mind as she stared dumbly at the student, who regarded her quizzically with a raised eyebrow. He slowly bent down to gather Shala's scattered books, and Shala managed to mutter thanks.

"Pardon me," said the boy, "I thought you were someone else."

"Uh, t-that's all right," stammered Shala, giggling a little too loudly. "In a big school like this, I keep thinking I'm seeing people I know, so…ah, no harm done."

"What's your name?" Somewhere in the back of her mind, Shala recognized the student was behaving rudely, but her discomfort made her thinking fuzzy. His eyes bore into her own, and she fancied she could spot a red glimmer in one. Stupid, she yelled at herself, pull yourself together! He's not a demon!

"Shoma Shala. I teach first-year Hothan Literature." She saw the boy's lips curve into a cynical smile. He nodded, comprehending some inner message Shala was not privy to.

"From the same family, then," chuckled the boy. A feeble chill ran down Shala's spine. "I'm Haku. Shoma Haku. Sorry for stopping you like this." Haku bowed slightly, and departed. Shala watched until he rounded the corner and passed out of her sight, then she strode briskly into the Hothan Lit office. She brushed by a chattering group of teachers, and headed for her still-messy cubicle.

"Hey, Shoma!" yelled the heavily-painted teacher. "Clean up your messes! We aren't your parents, you know."

"My parents are messy," dryly replied Shala. You hooker, she silently added, flipping through her brand-new copy of the school directory. Yes, Khezuke lived at the main estate, as did Hotohori. Hatsuharu and Haku, too. In the directory, Haku's name was written out in full, and Shala furrowed her brows at it.

The painted teacher was leaning over Shala's shoulder, preparing to scold her more. "Oh, that kid," she said, seeing Haku's name.

"You know him?" asked Shala, shutting the book and facing the other teacher.

"Yeah, Haku's in my fourth-period class." Evident distaste appeared through the heavy blush and mascara. "He's just…scary. The kind that makes me think he's a psycho. I'm not getting caught alone with him, that's for sure." The teacher shuddered and returned to her cubicle.

Twenty minutes later, Hatsuharu stood in an alley one block away from Karori, facing off against a grey-haired teenage girl with purple eyes and a spherical electrical force field surrounding her.

"Ashiri," pleaded Hatsuharu, "please calm down. I'm not going to make you come with me. I just wanted to talk for a moment." The bright white electrical bands crackled loudly, and visibly flickered, deepening Hatsuharu's trepidation. Now he was beginning to regret his decision to chase down the person who was obviously the rat. He'd seen Ashiri waiting for her ride home outside the main doors of the school. All Hatsuharu had wanted was to introduce himself, and now she had him cornered in an alley.

"Leave me alone!" shrieked Ashiri. "I don't want anybody near me!" A new electrical band emerged and took the form of a clawed hand. It lunged forward at Hatsuharu's head, and he dodged just in time. Black scorch marks appeared on the brick where the electricity made contact.

"You could kill someone!" Fleetingly, Hatsuharu wondered if his final destiny was to die by electrocution in an alley that vaguely smelled of dead fish.

"I have killed people by accident before!" Her eyes glowed. Hatsuharu just felt indignant.

"Just stop it, or someone will come!" Even Ashiri had to admit this strange boy spoke sense. The electric bands dissipated into the air.

"Hatsuharu? Was that you?" called Khosure. He peeked into the alley, and his eyes shot open in alarm as he saw a strange girl glaring at him and Hatsuharu sprawled on his side, panting.

"It's all right," Khosure heard Hatsuharu hastily say to the girl, "this is a friend of mine. He won't do anything." Haku came around the corner then, and stood next to Khosure. Right away, Haku recognized the girl for who she was. He also picked up the sound of scuffling claws, and wondered if there were street rats nearby. No visible signs of them appeared.

"Ashiri, relax," said Haku calmly, advancing towards Ashiri and Hatsuharu. Ashiri straightened ominously, keeping her gaze fixed on Haku. "We're all Shomas. You've heard of us by now, haven't you?"

"Yes," replied Ashiri stiffly. "The ones with Shoma Asheno? I'm supposed to join you in a week."

"That's right," said Hatsuharu, who had stood up and was now brushing off his rumpled uniform.

"Oh, you're a Dzuni?" Khosure smiled nervously at Ashiri and walked further into the alley.

"Am I really?" said Ashiri coldly, folding her arms.

"Yes," answered Hatsuharu firmly. "We all have unusual looks and powers like you. I'm Shoma Hatsuharu, the bull. I'm exceptionally strong." He turned to Haku and Khosure, and explained, "Ashiri here can create electrical force fields and attack people with electricity."

"Yep, you're one of us, Ashiri," grinned Khosure. "I'm Ahame Khosure, the snake. I can fry people with my eyes." He batted his eyelids for emphasis.

"And I'm Shoma Haku, the wolf, or dog, as they say in the common Hothan Dzuni. But I'm really a wolf. I see visions of the past, and a ghost wolf comes out of my body every so often. My ghost wolf has a death toll attached to him. So, you see, whatever you were doing to Hatsuharu earlier, you're among your peers now." The frown on Ashiri's face wavered.

"I killed someone by accident," Khosure said softly, suddenly grave.

"Me too. It's hard getting used to powers that can kill," added Hatsuharu, encouraged by Ashiri's eroding front. They had evidently struck the right chord with her. Ashiri stared at the group in front of her, then shook her head violently. She bent to pick up her shoulder bag and left, bumping Khosure roughly on the way out.

"I have to go. My father will be waiting for me." Ashiri strode determinedly, her lithe body proudly erect, and ignoring all the stares from other pedestrians. However, Hatsuharu, Haku, and Khosure hadn't failed to miss her quivering lip as she passed.

The rats stopped stirring after Ashiri's departure.