Yuki and I got off the bullet train in Hiroshima and switched to the local trains for the big red-and-white ferry to Miyajima. We saw the giant o-Torii gate in the distance, an archway of bright orange reflected in the deep blue water.
Itsukushima Shrine splayed out on its stilt legs above the tide, which swelled around the barnacle-encrusted base of the snaking orange hallways. Against the blue of the sky and the dark green forested mountains, the sight took my breath away.
Yuki squeezed my arm. “It’s beautiful, right? It’s the one thing I like about visiting my brother.”
I grinned. “Is he that awful?”
“Worse,” she said, and we laughed. I breathed in the smell of the sea, the motor of the ferry whirring in my ears. And in the back of my mind, I felt the happy thrill of a summer vacation with friends.
But whenever I closed my eyes, the imprint of the ink dragon leaped at me, Ishikawa’s words filling me with doubt and dread. What sort of world was Tomohiro walking into at his kendo training retreat? Could he hold out against Ishikawa?
And if there really was a secret society of Kami—a dangerous one at that—why the hell didn’t he tell me? Did he really not know? So how come Ishikawa did? As if the Yakuza were really the good guys, and I was supposed to fall for that.
But no matter how I played the scene out in my head, I was never fully convinced that I’d figured it out. It didn’t add up.
The ferry docked and Yuki’s brother was there, waving wildly at us.
“Niichan!” Yuki shouted.
“Yuki!” he shouted back.
Niichan was short and slender, and looked an awful lot like Yuki. They had the same round, warm face, and the same willowy fingers.
“So good to see you,” he said, when we’d finally docked at the Miyajima Terminal. “And this is your friend Katie?”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, and we bowed to each other.
“I’m Watabe Sousuke,” Niichan said. “But you can call me Niichan, too, if you like.”
“Thanks.” I smiled. I’d never had any siblings, and it was nice to have a brother, even if he was a surrogate.
He took our suitcases, one in each hand, and loaded them into his white three-wheeled truck. We puttered up a few side streets and then scaled the side of the mountain.
He pulled into a narrow driveway and there it was, a little two-room house halfway up the mountainside and out of the way of the tourists. The view was amazing, the ocean stretching out to tiny islands that rose from its depths. From the inside of the house, the roar of the waves was a gentle lapping, a pleasant sound that filled the house.
Niichan put our suitcases in the corner of the main room and then walked over to the little stove to boil some water.
He made us each a cup of tea, and we sat down together on the tatami floor.
“Yuki’s glad you could come this year,” he said, passing a plate of cookies. I sat up straight on my knees, ready to put into practice what I’d learned at Tea Ceremony Club. But Yuki sat with her legs sprawled to the side, so I collapsed, too, relieved but a little deflated. So much for tea-ceremony stud-ies. “She always complains about how bored she is.”
“How could you be bored here? It’s beautiful!”
Yuki groaned. “It’s beautiful,” she said, “and tiny. Once you’ve been here every summer for the last four years, it starts to wear on you.”
“Well, at least you can show Katie around this time,
ne?
”
Niichan said, and I blushed at the familiarity of hearing my first name from a stranger. I guess I’d been in Japan long enough for it to affect me like that. “Listen, Katie, if you’re interested, I can show you around Itsukushima Shrine.”
“Isn’t that the one we saw from the ferry?”
Yuki nodded. “Niichan works there.”
My eyes almost popped out of my head. “You’re a monk?”
He laughed. “No, no,” he said. “Just a caretaker. I main-tain the website for the priests, clean the grounds, lead tours, that sort of thing.”
“Oh.” But my heart was still pounding. If he worked at a Shinto shrine, wouldn’t he know a lot about Kami?
After the tea, we took a walk along the shoreline of Miyajima, the giant orange arch of Itsukushima in the distance. We had dinner at a café, and on the way home, Niichan bought us each a maple leaf–shaped custard cake, the pastry warm in our hands. He laid out futons for us in the living room, which was also the kitchen, and was now a bedroom. He slept in the other room, which was his bedroom and had a Western-style bed in it. Diane’s mansion had Western beds, too, and I wasn’t used to the tatami pressing against my spine through the thin futon as I tried to sleep. Yuki and I whispered for a while, but when she fell asleep I stared into the darkness, listening to the lapping of the ocean outside the window.
Suntaba School and my life there felt so far away, the happiness and the danger Tomohiro brought into my world. I wasn’t sure how I’d managed to get mixed in with gangsters and secret societies. I wished I’d fallen for Tanaka, that I’d called Tomohiro on the jerk he was and just stayed away from him. But I’d seen the real him, that he was deeper and different and changed. Now I couldn’t imagine a world without him in it. My heart was glass—easy to see through, simple to break.
I wondered if this was how Mom had felt after Dad. It was enough to make me swear off boys forever.
The ocean breeze blew in through the window, the rich, salty smell of the sea pressing against my face. I thought of riding the horse through Toro Iseki, galloping freely through the clearing and laughing until tears swelled at the corners of our eyes and our stomachs ached.
A buzzing noise sounded in my purse. My
keitai.
I pulled back the futon duvet and crawled over the scratchy tatami, fumbling around in the bag until my fingers touched the cool metal. The darkness flooded with rainbow colors as I flipped open the top.
A text from Tomohiro. Of course.
How is Miyajima? Training started today. Katakou’s sensei is tough. Sato thinks you and I are spending too much time together. He’s joking that you’re seeing Takahashi on the side. —Tomo
I read the message again, scouring it for the messages hidden underneath. If Ishikawa thought we were spending too much time together, it must mean he was pestering Tomohiro about the Kami thing. My cheeks flushed when I read about Jun. Was he actually worried about it? I didn’t want to explain myself and come off looking dumb. Or worse, defensive.
I thought carefully, then typed a response.
Miyajima is beautiful, more fun than a sweaty old kendo summer. I only saw Takahashi at Sunpu when Ishikawa was being a—I deleted what I’d originally put, and tried again—
jerk.
I stared at it for a while, then clicked Send. I couldn’t risk any hidden messages of my own, anything that might give him away. I hoped my concern went with the message, because I was out of my mind over here on this tranquil island, unable to do anything to help.
In the morning, we took the ropeway up the mountain and searched for monkeys with Niichan’s binoculars. When the afternoon got too hot, we had plenty of summer homework to keep us occupied in the little house while we blasted the air-con.
Niichan and I went for a walk while Yuki perfected her chicken curry for dinner. We talked about the weather, the sights in Miyajima, about New York and Canada, and my life straddled between the two. When we reached Itsukushima Shrine, we wandered straight in, walking along the boardwalk planks above the water, through the long tunnels of orange and white that snaked along the building.
“Niichan,” I said, looking down at the big koi circling the stilts of the shrine.
“Hmm?”
“Could you tell me about the
kami?
”
“There are so many.” He laughed. “Here at Itsukushima the principal
kami
are the three daughters of Susanou.”
“Susanou,” I said. The name sounded familiar.
Niichan nodded. “The god of storms,” he said. “Amaterasu’s brother.”
My blood froze, but I forced my feet on so Niichan wouldn’t notice. Amaterasu was the source of power, Tomohiro had said. All the Kami’s abilities came from her.
“Do you—do you think,” I stuttered, hoping I wouldn’t sound ridiculous. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Do you think the
kami
were real?”
Niichan’s footsteps stopped. I opened my eyes and saw his face creased in all sorts of worry lines. I’d gone too far now, I thought, but then he smiled. “All I know is that there is a lot of power in the shrines,” he said. “If you pray, you get your wish, you know? I’ve seen it happen many times.”
“But what about… I mean, what about the ink-wash drawings some of the priests do? Do you think there’s power in those?”
I’d overdone it; he was looking at me funny. We reached the other end of the boardwalk and turned toward the main shrine in the center.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that there are those who have great talents in this world. And surely these talents are given for a purpose.”
I wondered what purpose Tomohiro’s ability had, what this dark curse on him could be for.
“Listen, there’s something I think you’d be interested to see,” he said as we neared the main shrine. Past the slotted wooden box for tithes was an old wooden door, and Niichan stopped outside it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small ring of keys, then unlocked the door and slid it to the side, revealing a dark, dusty room. He flicked on the light switch as we stepped inside.
“These are some of the national treasures we keep here at the shrine,” he said. “Some of them are very old, so we rotate the collection and keep them in this fireproof room.”
The room smelled of antiques, ancient wood and lacquer, dust and straw tatami on the floor. In the middle of the ceiling hung a square lamp, which cast shadows on the statues and paintings covering the walls. Fierce dogs of stone, teeth bared; bronze statues of bald-headed, chubby priests or princes or who knew what. Colorful woodblock paintings and several ink-wash landscapes.
“They’re beautiful,” I said. It was strange to think of all the history silently locked away in this room, half-forgotten.
“I thought you’d be interested because of the paintings you mentioned.” He smiled. “Many of these pieces are hundreds of years old, saved from the various fires Itsukushima Shrine went through. Some are more recent, of course.”
I approached one of the woodblocks, a painting in three panels shadowed by the square lamp above. A man stretched backward in agony, women and what might be diplomats in bright kimonos in desperate prayer beside him. Around him swirled horrible green-skinned demons and red-faced monsters, hands reaching for him and flames spiraling into inky darkness. The chaos in it unnerved me.
“That’s one of the most priceless in our collection,” Niichan said behind me. “One of the last woodblocks by Yoshitoshi.”
“Who’s the man?” I said, pointing to the arch of his back as he recoiled from the apparitions. The room felt stuffy, too warm for my liking.
“Taira no Kiyomori,” Niichan said. “A powerful leader in older times. He funded the restoration of this shrine in the twelfth century, which is why we have so many pieces relating to him. He was vicious at times, merciful at others, but very ambitious. He controlled Japanese politics by force for many years, creating ranks of samurai in the government.
He even forced the emperor to abdicate so he could place his own son on the throne.”
“Is that why all the demons?” I said, staring at the painting. I felt ill just looking at it, and yet I couldn’t look away.
A bead of sweat rolled down my face.
“Ah.” Niichan nodded. “When Taira was older, he fell into a horrible fever. Vivid nightmares every night, demons approaching him, shadow monsters whispering horrible things.
His fever burned everyone who touched him, they say. Eventually it killed him.”
My heart pounded in my ears. A powerful man with ties to the imperial family, hunted by nightmares until they killed him. Could he be a Kami, too?
And suddenly I saw that the flames in the picture were moving, f lickering back and forth in the inky darkness. I jumped back.
“Daijoubu?”
Niichan asked.
“I’m not okay,” I whispered. “I thought I saw… There!
Did you see it?”
“What?”
Of course he’d think I was crazy. But I knew I’d seen it.
“Never mind,” I said, backing away from the woodblock. “It must be the heat. Do you guys keep this room so warm to preserve the treasures or something?”
“Katie,” Niichan said, and I looked at him. Suddenly the room was freezing.
“What’s going on?” I said, and Niichan’s face twisted with confusion.
“You saw the flames move, didn’t you?”
“What do you mean? That’s impossible,” I lied. Niichan shook his head.
“You felt the fire. Taira was a Kami, Katie, and so was Yoshitoshi, who painted this piece. But if you saw it move—
I don’t understand.” He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know how, Katie, but I think you’re a Kami.”
Reality shattered, everything around me slowing. “Me?”
“If you weren’t, the flames wouldn’t have danced for you.
Yoshitoshi’s Kami bloodline was faint. His ink only reacts to those whose Kami blood has been awakened.”
“I’m…I’m not…”
“You know what a Kami is,” Niichan said, and shocked by his words, I nodded. There was no sense denying it. “You’d have to know, to ask me the questions you did. Your drawings move, don’t they?”
“They don’t.” Except one time, but Tomohiro had been there. “And I couldn’t be a Kami.” I lifted a tangle of blond hair in my hand.
“That’s true,” Niichan said. “It shouldn’t be reacting to you, but it is. You must be tied to the Kami somehow. Why?”
I don’t know. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s why Tomohiro’s drawings are going haywire.
“Niichan,” I said, nervous to spill the secret. “I know someone who—whose drawings move. But it’s worse when I’m around. The ink jumps off the page.”
Niichan’s eyebrows shot up. “You know such a powerful Kami? Be careful, Katie. Most aren’t capable of such things.