Chapter 4
"Akira," says your father, "sit with me at the goban."
The game you made together still litters the surface of the board. Ogata was right; it was not your usual go. It doesn't look at all like your father's go either. You look down and see the spectre of Shindou's hands: ripples in the pond, circles spreading wider and wilder in the water…
Years later you will look back and understand that this was a moment of terrible change, a bridge you crossed blindly as it crumbled behind you. Before this, your father's go was the only goal you could see. Before this, there was never a problem your father could not solve. But now here it is: a tsumego with no path to life.
The shock of this realization makes you blink rapidly, clearing your head. The strange fog around your thoughts lifts for a moment. Your father needs to understand why this has happened, you decide.
"I know," you say, voice thick, as you take your place on the south side of the goban, "I know you think Shindou isn't real."
The name gives your father pause. He frowns, deepening the heavy lines in his face. He waits for you to speak.
"You think I'm going crazy," you say, "that I'm hallucinating because I have no friends my age."
Your father still does not move or speak.
"Do I seem that lonely?" you say. "So lonely I've gone crazy?"
The hands curled against his knees clutch a little tighter, for all that they hold onto nothing. "How can you explain what Ogata and Ichikawa told us?" he says.
"I can't." You suppress a shudder. "I don't know who Shindou is. Until now I didn't know no one else could see him. I'm trying to understand how this could possibly—"
The pity in your father's face angers you.
"…except I can't figure it out." With a sudden, almost vicious sweep of your hand, you brush the stones of the board and they fly onto the tatami. In a mad rush you pick up a black stone and place it onto the left star point, four-four; the old jouseki of Shuusaku comes natural on this floor woven of river reeds. "The game I'm showing you," you say in a voice that grows stronger and more sure as you lay down the stones in sequence, "is not a game I could have created on my own."
You keep laying stones. After the twenty-eighth move the pity melts off your father's face, to be replaced by wonder. It's strangely satisfying. "Who is playing black?" he asks.
You almost laugh. "Shindou," you say. "Shindou Hikaru, in sixth grade like me."
You replay more of Shindou's hands. Ancient, impossible hands. Your father studies the board with careful eyes. His fingers hover over the stones, searching for the phantom who laid down these moves. His wrinkled hands are so different from Shindou's small, childish hands. But the strength, the wisdom in them...
"This is not the go of a child." He looks up "not even a child like you."
Now you do laugh. It's an awkward, despairing sound. "I know. I know! Shindou wasn't…he didn't even know how to nigiri. I had to teach him."
"If this...Shindou is not real," your father murmurs, "where did this game come from? You could not have conceived of these hands on your own. I don't know of anyone who could. But this person playing white is definitely you."
You lean your head down and act as if you are studying the board intently. But really you just want your hair to cover your eyes; they are squeezed shut with frustration. Blindly, you grasp a stone between your thumb and forefinger, like you did when you were a toddler, and show it to your father. "He held the stones like this."
A few pieces still lie scattered around the board, black and white points like stars on the tatami. Neither of you moves to clean it up. This image will stay with you for a long long time: your father kneeling in seiza among the fallen stones, dark eyes full of bewilderment but also a wild sort of… joy. He has never looked like that playing you. He has never looked at anyone like that. Not that you remember. He looks…young.
Then he stands. "Thank you, Akira," he speaks almost reverently. "I will speak with your mother now. Thank you for your honesty."
You nod. You stand too. "I guess… I'll get ready for bed."
"Yes, that would be fine."
His voice is already going distant. It unnerves you a little, sending strange reverberations through your bones—but it is too late to uncross the bridge now.
You walk behind father through the sliding door into the hallway. Your feet seem to float, soundless as air, or a whisper on the autumn wind. Tok cries the water spout in the garden. Sshhhhssss your socks slide on the wooden floor.
You part from your father at the crossroads between the kitchen and the stairway above. He goes into the kitchen to see your mother; you wordlessly ascend.
On the second stair from the top, you hear your mother's voice rise in agitation. You float above it somehow, despite the great weight in your stomach.
Absently you wonder if your mother remembered to draw the bath tonight for all of you. You think she has probably forgotten. You suppose you'll have to do it yourself. Maybe you'll clean the floor of the tub a bit too, as she usually does. But first you have to get your clothes and bathing things.
As you approach your room you shiver. Why is it so chilly? A hot bath will do you good. You are very tired…
You turn the knob of your bedroom door. It opens with a long, heavy creak and your hand comes off the doorknob, completely slack. You stand stock still, unable to comprehend what you're seeing.
Sprawled out on your bedroom floor, wearing a sheepish grin, is Shindou Hikaru.