Mother - Chapter 1

"A house divided cannot stand."

—Matthew (12:25), Bible

1

The city already looks miniscule behind us. I peer at the fading metropolis between two stacks of luggage in the trunk. It’s astonishing, really, how a ten minute drive can reduce something so imposing to a mere smudge on the horizon. Give it a minute, maybe two, and I won’t be able to see it at all—perhaps never will again. The thought makes my head spin.

“Why do we have to move?”

A squeak of leather as Father stiffens from the driver’s seat. “We’re starting anew.”

His toneless voice doesn’t invite a follow-up question. I can tell he’s irked; I ask him this question all the time. Sometimes if I catch him off guard I can trick him into letting stuff slip. The beauty of this tactic? He can only be mad at himself for falling for it. Except, he doesn’t. Not with this. He’s been more absent-minded than ever, yet I always receive the same cagey, non-answer.

A change of strategy, then. I interrogate him inside my mind. Sounds like a lame idea, but it’s kind of a specialty of mine. If you pay attention to people as much as I do, you can pretty much figure out what they will do or say in a given situation. It’s even easier when it comes to my father. I like to think of his thought processes as a flow chart. Structured. Predictable.

“Why are we really moving?” I think, imagining Father’s grave face, bushy eyebrows knitting together.

“We’re starting anew, Henrik.”

“Why? What’s wrong with the life we have?”

Even in my imagination, his voice is gruff. Blunt. “Your mother died.”

The answer is so simple that I feel embarrassed not thinking of it until now. Father wants to flee the city because mother passed away. Of course that’s it. It’s been almost a whole year, but I know people can act in peculiar ways following the death of a loved one. For example; Hakishi-sensei, my chemistry teacher, went insane trying to find a cure for his terminal wife, who’d been diagnosed with some kind of rare brain disease. There was no hope for her. When she eventually slipped away in her sleep, Hakishi laid beside her and just gave up, let himself rot away right there.

If grief can befuddle an esteemed scientist, it can cause my father to uproot our lives and move to the countryside. By comparison, his behaviour is downright ordinary.

But pointless; Mother will be dead no matter where we go.

My imagined father doesn’t respond to this thought—a good indication I shouldn’t find out how the real one will.

“I’m happy we’re moving, Daddy!” Conrad chirps beside me. “It’s like an adventure!”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Father encourages him—but his eyes are on me as I briefly meet his gaze in the rear-view mirror.

“The countryside is beautiful,” Conrad continues, pointing at my window and then turning his blond head to gaze out his own.

I’ve been too focused on the world we left behind to notice the one we’re entering. For miles, the road is hemmed with evenly-spaced cherry blossoms, their bittersweet aroma wafting through the open windows. They’re in full bloom, delicately shedding pink leaves into the atmosphere, mimicking snowfall. If Mother was alive, she’d make some kind of cheesy comment. Tell us the sakura tree symbolized the fragility of life, how the leaves fall shortly after bloom to serve as a reminder that life is limitlessly beautiful, but often cut short. Or she’d moan about how annoying the leaves are to sweep off the garden path. She was the exact opposite of Father; never knew what to expect.

Her face starts to appear in my mind. I feel the urge to talk, shatter the image.

“The city has sakura, too”.

Conrad pouts at me. “You don’t even like the city.”

He has a point. I don’t much care for the city. But I know the city. I know the pollution-stained buildings. The neon lights shimmering in every storefront. The people’s incessant need to string lanterns over everything. Things are better when they’re predictable. Like people. And like when conversations replicate the ones I practice in my head.

I steal one last glance over my shoulder. The city has all but vanished, lost to the distance we put in front of it, veiled by the swarm of gentle leaves caught in the car’s slipstream.

#

I start awake, and for one glorious second, forget where we are—or more specifically, where we’re going.

The cherry blossoms are long gone, replaced by scratchy tufts of yellow grass and miles of barren, rolling landscapes. Ahead, a narrow bridge offers an unsure path over a winding river. It’s the only landmark in any direction. The peeling struts are painted toolbox red, and atop the guardrails are many tarnished lanterns providing an easy glow in the waning daylight.

Who’d bother to come out here and light them? If the country folk are as obsessed with lanterns as the people back in the city, then perhaps things won’t be so different after all.

Gravel crunches underneath as Father slows the car to a crawl, lining up our passage onto the deck. Conrad stirs and lifts his head, rubbing his powder blue eyes.

“Oh, a river!”

The bridge groans as we pass. Conrad peers outside, straining to get a good look. “Can we stop, Daddy? I think I saw a jellyfish!”

Conrad has a wild imagination, even for an eight-year old.

“We’ve almost arrived at our new home,” Father says. “We’ll have a river in our very own garden.”

“And jellyfish?”

“Maybe. You’ll have to check for us.”

The bridge marks our re-entrance to civilization. Minutes later the landscape falls away and we find ourselves delving into the heart of a wide valley. The road divides a hamlet nestled at the bottom. On the far side of these dwellings, a river runs perpendicular, shimmering as it reflects the sun’s departure from the pink sky. The opposite wall of the valley is spread with evergreens, their canopies linked together seamlessly, as if in effort to hide the hill on which they stand.

The riverbank is checkered with staggered parcels of land. Rice paddies. I’m not surprised there are arable farmers living here. What else will people do in the countryside besides tend grain crops?

“Why do the houses look like that?” Conrad asks as we pass the first set. The thatched gable roofs are overbearingly prominent, like giant books propped into steep triangles. The top half of each house is lined with white panelled windows.

“They’re called minka houses,” Father says, slowing the car until we come to a stop beside the last two. “Don’t be tempted to climb the roofs, Conrad.”

Pretty good advice, really. My brother has no sense of danger.

A warm glow appears on our right. A hunched, elderly woman ambles out of the last minka, clutching an andon lamp. Her straw sandals grate on the pebble-strewn road as she closes the distance to the car. When she arrives at Father’s window, she bows her head lower than it already is and holds this pose for several seconds. Father mimics her gesture as well as he can from inside the car. When she straightens up she regards us with a determined expression.

I expect a frail croak, but instead she speaks with a sharp tongue. “Welcome to Shinpi farm, my name is Miiko. You must continue the journey on foot. The bridge hasn’t taken the strain of a vehicle for quite some time.”

Conrad and I stiffly exit the car and wait beside the woman, who stares down at us with a neutral expression. “Tell me, children. Are you prepared for life on the farm?”

I decide not to answer, mostly because what I want to say would be ruder than not saying anything. Something about her unnerves me—maybe it’s the way her lantern casts unflattering shadows over her face. I can’t read her like I can most people. She seems to mean well, judging by her question, but then she also seems to have an edge, a calculated gleam in her glassy eyes.

“Yes, Miiko,” Conrad says, bowing almost into the shape of a minka roof. I can always count on Conrad’s friendly nature to spare me the exchange of pleasantries. The woman chuckles, though it sounds reserved.

Father appears from behind the car clutching rolls of bedding material over one shoulder. With his free hand he swings me a lumpy parcel. I hope it contains snacks of some description because my stomach beckons with hunger.

“Please, this way,” Miiko says.

The bridge is much like the one from before, only the lanterns are unlit, and most of the red paint has peeled off. Everyone remains quiet as we traverse across, as if this will prevent the bridge from collapsing. The silence is broken by the decking as it groans with every footfall, and the occasional trout breaching the river. A foul stench emanates from Miiko’s smoking lantern, burning my nostrils. What does she have in there, rotten flesh?

“You’ve come at an appropriate time,” Miiko says, leading us to the opposite bank. “Spring is a time for new beginnings. Can I trust your children to help prepare the rice paddies for seeding?”

“They will be glad to,” Father says.

“I’m pleased to hear it; the families of Hato village are increasingly reluctant to send their children to help.”

“Their fear is understandable.”

The woman stumbles slightly in spite of the unencumbered path. “I didn’t expect a city dweller to be aware . . .”

My mind races, scrambling to memorise their conversation. I’m just as taken aback by Father’s awareness of what Miiko is referring to. Perhaps a few carefully worded questions will help fish for more information at another time.

We come to a stop before one last minka on the forest edge. The dwelling seems unnaturally shrouded, as if it clings greedily to the shadows cast by the evergreens.

“This house has not been lived in for three decades,” Miiko says. “We kept it maintained for the previous owner, though they never appeared in person. May I ask how you came to acquire it?”

My father pauses before answering. I recognise this as a precursor to a cagey reply, since I’m on the receiving end of one so often.

“It’s a very uninteresting tale,” he begins. Aha. A polite prompt for a change of conversation. I note that Father is slightly less abrupt when it’s not me he’s fobbing off, and wonder if I can use that to my advantage somehow. Perhaps I can orchestrate a scenario where an adult asks him questions I wouldn’t get away with.

“Please excuse a prying old lady,” Miiko offers an apologetic bow, then hands her lantern to Conrad. “You may borrow this if you return it to me tomorrow. The fish oil will burn for several hours.”

Fish oil. That explains the awful smell.

“Thank you,” Father says. They both dip their heads respectfully one final time, then Miiko departs.

Father takes a moment to survey the house. A hint of satisfaction curls the corners of his mouth. “What do you think of our new home, boys?”

New? I hope he means new to us, because the dwelling looks as if it has survived several centuries.

“It’s awesome, Daddy!” says Conrad, rushing forward. The lower section of the minka is panelled with translucent, rice-paper walls, latticed together with bamboo. He slides one open, revealing the entrance area.

Once we’re inside, Conrad sets the lantern on a wooden bench whilst Father steers the door back into place. The earthen-floor kicks up a musty smell as we shuffle around, inspecting our new home. The area is littered with metal tools and equipment that I cannot recognise in the deceptive light of the lantern.

The second portion of the house is raised a foot above the ground. The bamboo wall slats are already open, exposing the central living quarters. We remove our footwear before stepping up onto the smooth, wood plank floor. I flinch, not expecting the decking to be so cold.

The centre of the room is dominated by a square, sunken fire pit. A metal rod is suspended over it, the end curled into a hook, which I guess is for hanging pots over the fire. Cushions are dotted around the edges of the hearth, inviting us to sit.

“We’ll sleep here, on this occasion,” Father advises, placing the rolls of bedding on the floor and taking a seat with his back to a vast, timber pillar. He instructs us to settle down on his right.

The lumpy parcel indeed contains food. I tear it open and pass a steamed bun to Conrad, then tear into my own. Usually we would have to wait for Father to start his meal first, however he is busy lighting the hearth and I can’t restrain myself.

It takes a while for the fire to dispel the shadows from the exposed upper levels of the house. The orange blaze gleams off the many timber posts that crisscross each other, creating a framework that supports the thatched roof. Overhead, a runway leads to twin attic rooms on either side of the house. A disturbing sense that someone is up there crosses my mind, and it seems to cross Father’s, too, because he leaves us to explore.

We watch the occasional spark rise from the pit and snag on a bamboo shelf above the hearth. The twisting flames hypnotise me into lethargy, though the long journey hadn’t left me with much energy to begin with. My eyes grow heavy until they can no longer trace the movements of the flying cinders and my thoughts slow to a nonsensical haze.

#

I wake to the sound of Conrad whimpering beside me. We share a futon mattress beside the dying fire, though I can’t remember moving there.

Conrad often rouses me like this. I stroke the back of his hand until he settles, telling myself that I’m only doing it to quiet him. Once his breathing plateaus, I roll over and pull the blanket over my head, shutting off the last vestiges of light flickering in the fire pit.

Inside this makeshift tent, I peel back my left sleeve, exposing my forearm. As I do, a soft, azure glow spills throughout the enclosed space, staining everything with a blue hue. The light emanates from five intricate symbols etched into my skin, strange characters I hadn’t seen before the day I’d been branded with them.

I gaze, transfixed by the radiant symbols, allowing my mind to wander back to the final time I saw my mother alive.

A/N:

I've posted this before but in third person past tense. I really prefer first person present, so revised it, but I have never used present tense before, so hope I haven't switched tenses a lot! If I have please point out some instances.

Also want to say thanks to the people who reviewed this previously. I have implemented a few changes as per those suggestions, however there are some grander issues that I'm not going to address until the end of draft 1.

Literally any comment is welcome, I only ask that it is constructive. If you liked it, say why! If you didn't, please please say why! If you only read a small amount, what made you stop? Don't be shy!

Thanks