Chapter Seventy-Two: The Child was Storm
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Some men are boys at heart—companions in spirit. Boys played in Spring and Summer's warmth, yet Autumn made them grow and Winter kept them still and young. It was this lull, this stillness that never left the limbs of men—some men, not all men, were prone to this strange habit; and when behaviours became habits, it was harder and harder to shake them off. This permanence haunted men to their graves.
So at heart they remained boys; in spirit, men. Strange, what strange habits to seek and savour? They played games and their games were endearing, child-like, but deadly, tricky just the same. Their hearts had never known the sure touch of an adult's duplicity that was cruel; and you set children to catch children—men only punished them.
And he loved the storm that was sated and quiet now, having spent its wrath inside the bedevilments of his dreams—dreams created for children. The storm was primal and in a state of infancy again. Soon, it would feed well upon the last harvests of Autumn's life and make itself anew, drive itself to anger and a state of vengeance.
Yet how would it feel to control it, direct his hand to its head and stroke it? He knew—he knew how to calm the child that was storm. It was hard to communicate his heart through the magnificent barrier of flesh and bone. The instrument thump-thumped and spoke its language, yet his tongue was not always warm to its pleas. It stayed still the way he stayed calm. It was a secret shared between them.
Winter did not always speak its heart: no, its mind and mechanism were more open to scrutiny; its spirit, naked and white, hidden underneath the pristine grave whose bits fell from the sky; it was a call to run and hide! It drew out children with promises of Autumn's last remains that grew on trees bent and deep in forests crooked; but they got lost in mild mists and callous colds; out in the wilderness they perished, with red and pink upon their lips, lungs full of liquid blood, bones cold and brittle. Winter had many stories to tell; ah, but children should fear it in their hearts and bones—they should fear it, always.
In Autumn's rains that fell like children's prayers, mothers died with swords in breasts; arms outstretched, defenceless, one touched Winter upon its lips and brow. Death danced red and pretty in Winter's countenance—a child's mockery, a child's gift, like a smudge against white. It was beautiful—most precious gift from Nature!
And Winter's spirit was beleaguered by Autumn's lush lashes, petal-mouth, chaste mien ever since it was a babe whimpering in his arms (a mother's love was an expected condition; her child's beauty, a lasting malady). Its signs remained above its continuous graveyard, purple and pretty and with a heart so hard. Now, bodies of kin lay deep in soil, full of earth's creatures, eyes open and full of terror. Did they still see in the graves? Did they still feel in the dark? Did they still think in Winter's graveyard? Strange, he did not ever want to see, hear, know of the reds and loves and pleas that parted from their bodies. Children ought to forget things that caused them worry!
This child—it would coo and it would gnarr, but his heart was set, desperate to avoid this inevitable spar; and it would grow deadly—violent—in Winter's heart, a season of love's end and a new start!
Lantern glowed on the low table, the colour of which was soft red: pink moved through wreaths that came from warm food and darted about, excited like insects forgotten in winter's air. Light grew, a budding flower, on the map of the boy's bony cheek he chose to see. It lacked radiance and ruddy red that complemented the plumpness it had in this youth's spring! This ailment had sucked the boy child dry of his vigour and smile and anger; his complexion, dull as flour, which possessed an elusive chalky hue—a feeble and etiolated colour.
The boy had not looked at him yet, his clumsy fingers busy with food; but his heart did not seem interested in feeding taste to his hungry tongue; and it had hungered and hardened in his mouth, deprived of the things all men cherished just to survive—illusions made the heart happy, but they did not satisfy a man's . . . primal drive.
"Sasuke, do you not like the food?" he asked, almost bored of the hanging silence between them (even men who conversed with silent brides grew bored sometimes and coveted the sounds of children's merrymaking): the child woke up, but had his senses woken up, too? He would just have to find out! So he stroked the boy's head, sweetly, cautiously; he did not want to frighten him—yet!
The boy, Sasuke, did not answer; he fumbled with food, his fingers shaking, unable to steady the chopsticks as though he never practiced to hold them in his childhood. He was of half a mind to grasp Sasuke's fingers, which had gone pale as winter's fire, and help him, but the frown that grew between Sasuke's smooth eyebrows stopped him. He could tell that the boy's tongue was dripping with questions . . .
"Where were you?" Sasuke asked in a manner as if he had not used his voice in so long and cast his suspicious eyes about him, not casting them on his sibling.
"I had—"
"I read the letter," Sasuke cut him off, squared his shoulders, placed the chopsticks on the table. Green veins jumped and became prominent in his whitest neck, portions of which were pink with blood—or, perhaps, it was the trick of the light; Itachi could not say.
"It was from Tsunade," he said and sniffed and strained his facial muscles as if he was still in pain. "You took a break? Where did you go?" And, this time, he looked at Itachi, and his face went beneath the light's threads that travelled across his features in sanguine movements.
Sasuke had bathed: his face was sharp, clean, and alert; his hair, though still quite wild, fine and supple; his body smelt of a fragrance the servant must have added to warm water—sandalwood and something else . . . his father's eyes that slept in his face had not risen yet to match Itachi's arrogance; bespeaking calm, they hid away the undercurrent of fear and anger; but Itachi could see, he always could!
"Village business," Itachi replied and gazed upon the lantern: it was their father's, and it was old and frail now—its light, still magnificent, defying time, existing in hearts; yet it missed the mark on his Itachi's heart; it had missed it dearly!
"Karin's gone—" Sasuke stopped and titled his head and looked ahead at the shadows that materialised tenderly on the paper-screen, "—she'd never leave without telling me."
Itachi felt resentment towards Kai: he had a small duty to fulfill, but he failed him again. He did not let anything manifest on his face and brushed away the forelock resting on Sasuke's forehead between his eyes. He could never understand how the child managed to function with such a disorderly appearance: all things considered, it matched his contempt for the norms—an apt union Itachi could never reconcile with his brand of austerity. . .
"Suigetsu—he's gone, too," Sasuke spoke again, and Itachi's own quietness made the situation more bothersome. "Where is he?" And Sasuke looked at his brother again—who possessed touches of their mother's tender countenance and marks of their father's firm one—his eyes hard, spilling over with accusation this time. My, the child had many questions to ask tonight! And Itachi smiled, slow eyes following the motion of the light as it moved like a red ooze along the white neck of the child, overwhelming the colour of youth in his veins—he was angry, frustrated, weak!
"Rest now," Itachi whispered and took Sasuke's hand in his and brushed his thumb over the bony knuckles. "Look, how the fever has affected you. If you do not rest, I will not allow you to rejoin. Sleep now, and we will talk in the morning."
Defiance lashed, unbound in the boy's blood and eyes: how long would the barricades hold? Truths were inevitable; and he would brave the storm that was this boy when the time arrived! He was fearless, heartless, soulless in his convictions that were as supreme as the sensation of being touched by the backhand of Divine.
Sasuke lowered his gaze, lashes bearing his father's light, and raised it back up again; and in his eyes, something had lost its bearing, and he questioned Itachi no more . . .
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She stood looking at the stalk that had risen above the soil that was wet and loose. The seedling fed upon rains and breathed in riches of this land; and for the first time in its life, it saw light come from Autumn's sun: it was aloof this sun, but not as distant and uncaring as Winter's Son would be. Its light, soft as lilies, possessed a vague yellow hue that floated upon the thicker air pervading in this season. It was tough to draw it in and relish the wonders of . . . being alive? She frowned!
Rao had planted a curse into the ground, and this garden turned gloomy at this accursed child's birth. The more it grew, the more lonely it made her feel; and it had only just begun its cooing, playing, scheming in Winter's bosom. Soon, it would have Winter's heart in its fist, make funny sounds from a throat untrained by years and duplicity. Then it would become the apple of his eye—only apple of his eye; and he would see nothing else, none but it! Its eyes would snare his gaze; its coos, his ears; its presence, his spirt, his soul, everything evermore! Oh, where was she in Winter's heart? Nowhere—not even in the little corner by the graves . . .
Curse this child! Curse this boy! Curse this storm! She wished she could have her beloved's heart, empty it out of all the things he cherished, and fill it up with her images as inducements for his passions; but it was not easy; it was never easy between them. That autumn evening when he had touched her with tenderness in the reclusive garden behind Kuro's house, there was bloom and passion in the sky, an intense shade of coming murders. Long, long ago—this memory was tired from running on the roads of her thoughts.
Yet, once upon a time, several moons past, Winter was a lovely, lovely boy. He took care of the wild boy, Sasuke, and loved him so. She would come to him with letters in her hands that shook with the thoughts of his uncertain nature. She sat and watched as the little boy dragged his bag to him, took out his Anbu things, and played with them.
Then Winter—her love and heart, Itachi—would take the boy into his lap and ask, eyes bent upon the little creature in reverence that wounded her soul, "where did you hide the Kunais?"
The mean little monster said nothing; he laughed and hid his face into Itachi's breast. Then he talked and talked and Itachi only listened; and, outside, sky was changed by night's sake, a glass filled to the brim with promise of love eternal; but promises were only promises. Night was a liar—Truth was not in its nature!
The child grew sleepy, and night imitated him, too—its hues diluted by more sinister comings that made it feel weary and tired of wearing many colours for show. Itachi lifted up the boy and pulled him to his breast and left the room; but he stopped at the library's door, his face cast in the red lantern's light, just for a moment to break her heart: "I've got to put Sasuke to bed. Then I have to finish my Anbu reports. Give your parents my regards—I won't be able to meet with them."
And then he left, without ever looking at the letters she had in her grasp; he pulled away from the room and light, and red lifted off his face as though a veil had been touched tenderly by evening's breeze . . .
She looked up, pulling her eyes away from the shivering bud that was still frail and little: the sky was decorated in red and purple finery. It would be dark and night's arrival was imminent. The waxing moon would need more nights to locate its true strength and have intercourse with darker shades and conquer them—lay siege to their territory in arrogance and white armaments.
It had been two days and one night since Sasuke woke up, and whilst Itachi called Rao back to the house, he did not bother to invite Izumi to his chamber; but he had shown her passion when Sasuke was still shivering in bed, bothered by pain and fever. It felt like a dream she dreamt in lust, during nights when storm raged and beat against the walls of her of house in anger. What a dream that was her refuge; he, her solace; his flesh, her flesh's companion!
She wanted to sense the frenzy of him inside her flesh, relish the taste of him on her tongue, enjoy the sight of him in her eyes. It was not fair to be wanting all the time—it was never fair! And she lowered her eyes, missing marks of affection and finding marks of envy, and gazed at the supple bud that would flourish well in Winter. What if she were to trample it before it quenched its thirst from love's waters, bowered by Winter's obsessions?
"Izumi!" came a voice from the window of the large house. "Child, come inside. It is cold!"
Izumi spun around, her garments floating, her hair-decorations clinking. "Y-Yes, Rao-Sama!" she said loudly in reply, watching as Rao slid shut the window to keep the cold from getting inside. She did not look back at the bud and walked inside the house, her heart made!
When Izumi stepped into the house, an emptiness greeted her. The rooms of his dead relatives were haunting. She would be lying if this house did not frighten her: it did! It was lonely like graveyards and silent like winter meadows where shadows of Spring's flowers thrived, not the bright flowers that brought joy to hearts. She hated Higanbanas that stood inviting like harlots on death's shores. Its beauty enraptured Winter's sight and senses! She hated red—hated it!
"Speak, child," Rao spoke and walked around the room with an incense container in hand. "You have been quiet since you came here. Did Itachi scold you? He can be very hard sometimes."
"No—he—" Izumi stopped and looked around at the little puffs of clouds that filled up the room. She pressed her sleeve to her nose: the smell was pleasant, but potent and over-powering.
Rao chanted a song in a lilting, rough voice. Izumi had never heard it before: it was a Song of Autumn from the mountain nuns—it was sung to protect children against daemons that roamed the dark, seeking wayward children to bewitch and murder; but was there a song to save daemons from daemons? She did not think such a song existed . . .
Rao sat down by the fireplace that was hot and warm, huffing. She placed the container, which gave out indistinct puffs of smoke, down on the table; lights travelled inside the deep lines of her face, and she appeared lovely in her own way when she smiled. She looked at Izumi, eyes shining as though they had stolen light's character. She wanted Izumi to speak!
Izumi worked her lungs and drew in the fragrant air to fill them to their depths. Her breast rose, and then she let out a loud and long sigh. Fire was warm on her face and bosom, parts of which turned light pink. "Itachi-Sama doesn't lay with me anymore," she said and saw Rao's smile lose its firmness. "If he doesn't—d-doesn't call me, how can I give him an heir?" Izumi looked at her with wide eyes, her cheeks carrying a distinct sheen of sweat.
Yellow light illuminated the well-defined lines in Rao's face, lines that told her history. She did not speak for several heartbeats, a time and distance that tortured Izumi's heart; but she waited and hoped that this would make her compel Itachi to love her—even if it was only her flesh! In time, he would care for this seedling, too! In time . . .
"You are not his wife, child," Rao spoke, sighed, turned her face away. "I cannot force him to court you, and you cannot demand of him to care for you.
"A man makes or breaks a family—women only endure. So our laws make it so that a husband must fulfill his wife's needs. It is his duty. It is not about love—it is about the principle of things. What can I say to him about you? It is not that easy, my dear."
Rao returned her gaze to Izumi who had tiny yellow pearls in her eyes. "Do not grieve," Rao spoke and placed her old hand that was rough on hers. "I shall talk to him at night. Be patient. He is a good boy. He will listen to me—if not tonight, then tomorrow.
"For tomorrow brings hope, and we must never let go of hope!" And this time, Rao's smile was loveliest, but wistful . . .
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At night, breeze was gentle and calm: this was a welcoming respite from the intermittent storm that lashed these lands with heartless vengeance. It would be back with words in its rain, passion in its thunder, punishment in its lightning that would make Men's souls ring! She waited for its return and clash with Winter's cold heart; she would watch it lose its intensity; and, perhaps, then it may dart!
The willowy, white, beautiful boy of winter, whom she had rocked to sleep in her aged arms, was less aloof, less cold this evening. Dressed in traditional clothes, he sat by the low table and wrote, a thick brush coated with ink in his hand. The library was quiet, its walls lined with scrolls, antique frames, heavy cabinets, and more. Light from lanterns gleamed across this room's accessories, embedding itself in forgotten brushstrokes, making them shine! The room seemed to come alive—even in this Winter boy's presence!
"Have you forgotten about the heir business, child?" Rao asked and took a sip from the warm tea. "You run away from it the way thieves do from the ends of ropes."
Itachi created the last letter and looked at her, the brush still clutched in his fingers with delicate practice. "Sasuke sleeps in my chamber, and I have no intention of entertaining her whims in his bed.
"Why do you suggest this? The thought is unthinkable."
"The thought of you going near her in the guestrooms was just as unthinkable," Rao spoke sternly; her calm temper was shaken, "but you did as you pleased—I did not stop you. I hoped that it would yield a result, but you withheld your Chakra from her, robbing her womb of what it needed to flourish."
He lifted and straightened his throat, letting it wear a more lively colour for a change. Then he placed the brush into the ink bottle and directed all of his attention on her, but he said nothing.
Itachi looked at her with eyes that gleamed with light—it was like a little smile in his smile-less eyes. His face, framed by smooth and loose black hair, was white and lovely for her eyes, yellowed by brightness.
"Your behaviour is unbecoming. You would be more interested in Izumi if you stopped enjoying yourself with that foul woman—that Tayū," she spoke in a heavier tone, taking in a deep breath and letting it out quickly. Her eyes studied his eyes, but when eyes smiled for too long, it was a show of insincerity.
"Would my behaviour be less unbecoming if I treat her the way I treat a Tayū . . . though she would not enjoy honest intimacy," Itachi spoke, and he looked at her with sleepless eyes that never desired the comfort of sleep; and that made her worry.
Rao put down the cup on the table with a harder hand, grabbed hold of his silky sleeve embroidered with purple lilies, and pushed it up. Her eyes gathered fury that had slept through the years, undisturbed: a purple vein throbbed pretty and distinct in his arm that was white as settled snow, begging to be noticed as though the rest had collapsed from overworking.
"You have been taking more of it again?" Rao asked and pressed her fingers with a stern mind into his flesh, whorls of which were rough and deep like old soil. "Why—just to go beyond the shores of pleasure? To heighten your baser needs? You disappoint me, child!"
"Then I shall be more considerate of this girl, ask of her to share my failings," Itachi whispered, and it made anger breathe fire into her body; and she struck him on the cheek once, twice, thrice—with an open palm that was made harder and rougher with the deep passage of years—till the little strength old age had missed faded from her arm.
Rao pulled her hand back, breathing irritable, looking at the soft pink moving up into his cheek: the hue was reminiscent of the most fragile flower that grew at Spring's end, but his face did not twist to show her any emotion.
"Shame on you!" she hissed and clenched her fingers to stop herself from hitting him again. "You went near her in that state when you knew better than to treat her like a common Tayū. You broke that girl's heart when you never wanted her.
"Now that that state has passed, you are not interested in her anymore. Beastly—vulgar. I did not expect this from you!"
Itachi looked back at her and spoke not a word, his countenance did not betray whatever scurried with poisons in his veins; and that engendered an indignation in her, and she left his room in anger . . .
Night walked on through the shades, growing deeper and deeper into the unknown, but it did not stop to affect the light growing to bursting in her heart, eyes, and countenance. Izumi smiled, elated. She wore her best Kimono, roughed her lips, put up her hair in the most fashionable knot—the kind Tayūs favoured!
Rao promised her that Itachi would not send her away—not tonight. So she made her way to the largest guestroom, heart flying through the sky! It was a girl's heart and it broke easy—it fixed itself just as easily; and she opened the door, and her smile brightened the still-deep colour in her lips at the sight of him: he sat on the futon, his expression not brightened by any smile; but when he looked at her, sitting inside the sober dimness of this room, she could not help herself from feeling . . . loved!
And Izumi did not see the ghosts of seasons and pasts in his eyes—so enamoured by Winter's child! There was a kind of desperate frenzy that danced in her flesh, and she wanted to control it, satisfy it, feed it! Only he could complete her, do away with the things that bothered her.
And he would love her the way she loved him! He would! He could! He should! She closed the door behind her. The deep of the night's yearning was still few hours away . . .
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EN: Converse, obsolete, sexual intercourse.