A Fading Childhood

When we were kids, Hayato and I used to pretend that we are ninjas. We would dress ourselves in pitch-black kimonos and climb onto the cherry blossoms in the yard of his father’s abode, surveying the village. We made boomerangs out of construction paper and flung them into the laundry bags of the neighbours, chuckling, smiling playfully. Sometimes, late at night when my mind becomes fidgety and I toss around my bunk agitatedly, I can still see Hayato on the tree, the pink petals rattling as he leans against the interlacing branches, his vigorous smile, valorous eyebrows, valiant pupils, and zestful hands waving to me. I would discern his pitch-black hair being in an untidy style, reminding one of a porcupine, and the dark kimono in which he was clad nastily being similarly messy and smudged with a smattering of dirt. The askew hair, which he had always been too casual to comb, would oscillate in the direction of the breeze, drifting to and fro with my pupils glancing up at his figure.

There were times when Hayato could not attend our game, and these occasions were quite frequent. Hayato’s father was the most famed man in our town- a notable daimyo venerated even in the great city of Edo. He had commanded the Tōdō clan in the Battle of Yao and supervised the reconstruction of the Osaka Castle, yet, these had all occurred after Hayato and I grew older. When we were younger, his father was mostly prominent for his deft skills in fighting as a samurai.

Beginning from the age of five, Hayato had received a series of training from his father as the youngest son of the family. His two older brothers were both nimble warriors favoured by his parents while his adopted brother, Takayoshi, was similarly robust and sprightly.

I had always admired his family secretly and aspired of becoming a warrior, an insensible and impractical yearning during the time for I had been born in a merchant family, the bottom of the society.

Hayato had never mentioned of his father, whom I would gloat about if I were his son. I had always mused upon how Hayato regarded him, a skilful and distinguished fighter as well as the idol of our village. Occasionally, I wondered whether Hayato was intimidated by him due to his grand dignity and solemn, indifferent expression which he unfailingly carried, whether he felt pressurized by the royal blood which flowed through his veins and of which his heart pumped.

My inquiries were finally relieved on a seemingly tranquil morning in early spring, a day emblazoned deep inside my heart and the moment when I learned what a true warrior is.

The two of us had been chasing each other throughout the streets and irritating the neighbours, as usual, myself dashing ahead of him. He was panting heavily yet too determined and much obstinate to relinquish with his vigilant pupils fixed keenly on me. I averted my eyes towards the pavement again and turned down the path briskly, dashing athwart the emerald-coloured turf. His footsteps soon reached my ears as I rushed forward, halting my motion when discerning him leaning against a cherry blossom. The pink flowers embellished the thin, narrow branches of the cherry blossoms with a few petals drifting down in a gentle manner, as if dancing the waltz, and accumulating along the side of the pavement.

“I give up,” he uttered finally as a smile of pride was revealed on my face, “you sure run fast, Hiro.”

I took a few steps backwards and stood adjacent to him with my head leaning upward towards the cyan sky.

“You are a warrior, Hayato,” I returned, mocking him slightly. “You carry the blood of samurais.”

“Don’t bring the subject up,” he replied, his brows wrinkled, “I’d rather be born in a merchant family as yours than mine.”

“Yet, why?” I inquired earnestly as the two of us sauntered forward, “I’d love to touch a katana! You even possess a mamorigatana.”

“Frankly,” he resumed, leaning towards me eagerly, “I dislike being a warrior. We are murderers in another phrase. No being in the society possesses the right of interfering with the life of another, not even for justice.” His abrupt vehemence had caused my pupils to dilate, eyes twinkling and hands dangling. My smile had faded while the wind spun against our faces, pitch-black hair drifting to and fro, a faint aroma from the pink petals pervading the air. Everything was still. The brown sparrows’ chirping had been stifled. The rattling of the leaves was soothed. The fleecy clouds lingered on the turquoise sky, becalmed as rafts on a torpid sea. His breath grew heavier.

A grasshopper leapt among the turf ahead us, propelling its narrow, spry body upwards audaciously, akin to a miniature bunraku puppet.

My heart pounded faster.

A doddery woman sauntered by, hands gripped firmly on the laundry basket, grey, long hair vibrating in the motion of the breeze.

Hayato halted his steps.

A pleasant smell arrived at my noses, mingling with the scent of dry weed. What was it? Tobacco? Smoke from a fire? Or had it been chestnut?

I stopped.

Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Hayato?”

Silence.

“Haya…” He strolled ahead. The world moved again.

I paced behind him briskly and placed my hand around his shoulder. At first, he shrieked as I did so, but a moment later, he let me recline against him.

-----

I leaned against the wooden crib, my hands and elbows supporting my head upwards, tiptoeing, pupils dilating. My father approached me from the back, lifted me up gently with an amiable smile, and pointed to the toddler sleeping soundly with a pink blanket bestrewing her miniature, pale feet and tiny hands. Both of us were silent as if a single stir could wake the child up.

I reached my hands out to pat her thin, silk-like hair while my father whispered in my ear softly, “what do you want to name her?”

A smile curled up on the tip of my lips with her velvety hands in mine, slightly warm.

“Seiko.”

“Seiko?” I was placed back on the tatami, my hands shaped in a fist firmly, as if there was some piece of precious item within my palm. Indeed, there was. The warmth of her hand which I tried to prevent from escaping, gripping onto earnestly.

“Means sunshine,” I answered with my head slightly tilted to the left, peering into the crevices between the crib, arms folded.

“It is a good name.”

“Yuki Seiko.” He leaned his head into the crib and played with her hair for a few moments.

“Yuki Seiko,” I reiterated, sitting on my knees.

“You are a brother now, Hiro.” He turned to me as I smiled brightly, nodding gleefully.

“A brother,” I repeated.

-----

I held the bowl of ice towards me steadily, hands slightly numb, smiling softly. The chirping of the cicadas echoed my ears with the delicate, lively music of the Furin mingling within.

Hayato scooped his spoon into the shaved ice as the matcha cream, in the colour of the turf, flowed downwards unhurriedly. I licked my spoon in jubilance, the ice melting on my tongue slowly and the sweet scent of the tea pervading my mouth, the smell of the mountains, some say.

I leaned against the mushy soil, my hands shuffling the fragile clovers among the turf as the sunflowers behind us oscillated and vibrated, to and fro, back and front. I followed the vigorous motion of their valorous, considerably-sized yellow petals, pupils averting with their movements, hair drifting in the same direction.

“Are you still dispirited?”

Hayato looked towards me in surprise then shook his head in composure, his pale face illuminated by the welcoming rays of sunshine.

“I was just intimidated by the idea of killing someone… you know, on the battlefield.”

“Yet, it is inevitable.”

“I know.”

I thrust another scoop of ice into my mouth while he sniffed the air as if searching for the faint fragrance of the sunflowers.

He continued, “my father is complaining that there are no wars nowadays anymore since we are living in a time of tranquillity…”

I kicked a stone on the soil, propelled it athwart the dingy-coloured pavement, and chased behind it down the alley. The rock arrived upon the doorstep of the door selling soba as a faint scent of soy sauce pervaded the streets. Not far from me, Hayato had leaned himself against the wall of the store, picked up my stone and was tossing it up and down in his hands.

“I appreciate this time of peace, however,” he resumed, “contrary to my father’s beliefs.”

I halted my steps as beads of perspiration accumulated upon my forehead, panting slightly, the scorching sun above my head.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone….” I turned my eyes to him, opening my mouth to speak as he resumed, “not even an adversary.”

“Not even for justice?”

His pupils dilated and pondered for a while, musing pensively.

“I guess if I kill someone for justice, then it is not just anymore.”

“For the empire?”

He bit his lips.

“If I murder a soldier for my nation, then I am simply killing a man fighting for his empire, a personage whose purpose of existence is identical to mine. Therefore, if he ceases to exist, the motive of my life does not subsist anymore. And if I cease to exist, the meaning of his life fades into oblivion similarly. Thus, if I die, so does he, in an abstract term.”

“You’ll have to become a samurai, after all, Hayato.”

“I acknowledge that.”

I swallowed the last spoon of ice, cream accumulated along the tip of my lips. He blurted into laughter at the sight yet continued in a tone slightly more cheerful than previously.

“Will you hate me for that?”

“For killing someone?”

He nodded.

“You will not kill anyone,” I touched the yellow petals, pollen floating in the air, “and I’ll never hate you.”

At the moment, I had just made a promise I couldn’t keep.

-----

The water was placid and transparent, with a tinge of cyan and turquoise mingling between, irradiated under the sun with rays of light twinkling on the dew accumulated upon the foliage of the ginkgo trees. I stepped my right foot in, shivered as the current paced against my skin, moisturizing it, bringing the air of chilliness towards it. My sister giggled, her hands on her straw hat, clad in a pale dress.

I plucked two viridescent leaves from the tree cautiously and poked holes amid their glossy surfaces, droplets of dew sliding down my fingers. My sister leaned her head towards me, her large, brown pupils fixed eagerly on my hands as if I was a deft craftsman and her- my protégé.

I pulled the emerald-coloured petioles through the holes and stretched them, bending the leaves and forming a round outline. She jumped up and down in ecstasy with her miniature hands leaning against my shoulder, her long, pitch-black dangling in the air. I smiled while handing her the fragile, crude boat, receiving a series of cheers and exclamations of delight.

“Now,” I told her as I climbed onto a rock near the brook, “watch me!” To this, I lifted myself upwards and plunged into the invigorating water, generating violent currents on its torpid surface. She chuckled as I did so and stepped in slowly, her thin fingers tracing the current and hands holding her dress upwards. My pale shirt and grey trousers had been completely wet while I floated on top of the brook, the water slapping against my arm.

She dropped the boat I made from the ginkgo leaf and watched it bobbing up and down, meandering along with the current. I hurried forward to chase it and placed mine on the water beside hers while the brook carried the two boats forward. Our pupils were fixed on the two miniature rafts vigilantly until the two became nothing but two viridescent dots on the transparent surface of the water, indistinct and nebulous.

“Is mine faster?” She leaned her head forward as I shook my head, good-humoured.

“Mine is ahead of yours.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Not.”

“Yes.”

“Not.”

“Fine.”

“No.”

“What?”

“We’re in a tie.”

I looked forward but could only discern a single dot. My sister had placed her straw hat on the shore among the wild grass and the fringes of her hair were submerged in the water.

“We’re not.”

“I want us to be.”

I averted my pupils at her and smiled, “me too.”

“Then we’re together, right?” She turned her head towards me vigorously, earnest.

“Right.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

-----

My sister died a month later. And I hated Hayato since then.

It was one of those frigid days in winter when snow had accumulated among the pavement and all the trees had shed their leaves with innumerable interlacing, barren limbs stretching towards the heavenly, pale blue sky. I gripped onto my rucksack with my sister holding my hands firmly, insistent of not letting them go. Her fingers were between mine, the warmth transferred from my palm to the centre of my heart slowly.

“It is only for two days,” I told her again in patience. “I will be back within the blink of an eye.”

“Don’t go,” she tugged my sleeves, “please.”

“But Father is preoccupied in business affairs, thus, cannot visit Grandfather,” I explained, bending my knees until reaching down to her height, “therefore, I must attend.”

I petted her head softly as snowflakes drifted down in a gentle manner as if dancing the waltz.

“You promise to be back?”

I nodded.

“Tomorrow?”

“The day after tomorrow, yes.”

She let loose of my hands gradually with her pupils concentrated on my figure, evidently yearning that I should linger for a little longer. I did not think of much. Who would? If I had acknowledged that this would be the last time we ever converse, I would never have left. Yet, I did not.

I had returned, according to my promise, two days later. Yet, she had broken her pledge, for she had not been there. The outlying village was almost as ordinary as the previous, housewives chattering among themselves, men hauling baskets filled with firewood, and the faint fragrance of soy sauce and tea mingling and pervading the air. Yet, nothing had been identical for me. No, never since then.

My accommodation had been burnt down thoroughly, with the regiment of a broken sash and a few shattered pieces of windows. The front door and the wooden fence had turned pitch-black while the cherry blossoms appeared to be more deadly than ever, splintered limbs accumulated upon the parched earth and a sparrow perched on top of all.

Hayato had been present, laying his hand on my shoulder which I shook off forcibly in vehemence and exasperation.

“I am sorry,” was the single response.

“Where is my family?”

“Your parents are in my abode…”

“Seiko?”

“She’s gone.”

I remained still. My breath halted for a moment while the beating of my heart echoed my ears.

Silence.

A tear.

Another one.

An inward scream.

“You could’ve saved her,” I turned to him. He nodded.

“The fire was horrendous.”

“Could you?”

“It was too perilous.”

“Could you?” I was screaming him, without noticing.

Another nod.

“You live next to my house.”

“I know.”

“Why had you not?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Lier.”

He stared at his feet.

“You are a warrior, are you not?” My brows were wrinkled. “Should you not have been more valiant? Could you not have helped her?”

“It was vicious, do you not understand?” His lips curled down. A sign of remorse appeared on his face as he resumed, “I’m sorry, genuinely.”

“ ‘Sorry’ does not help.”

“I know.”

-----

I held the fountain pen in my hand tightly. The petals of the cherry blossoms drifted in the air and landed on my desk. I stared at them blankly, fingers tracing their outline. The diffused rays of sunlight illuminated the petals of the cherry blossoms as a faint aroma, sweet and pleasing, flooded inwards via the windows and pervaded the serene chamber. The rattling of the crepe- pink flowers in the motion of the soothing breeze was the only disruption to the tranquillity of the atmosphere. Pale, fleecy clouds drifted athwart the turquoise sky, creating a picturesque scene.

Was I really exasperated? Or had it been… A knock on my door.

Was it he, who infuriated me? Another knock.

Was I just making an excuse? Silence

An excuse for my own? For not being present to help her during the fire? The door opened.

Do I hate him? Footsteps.

Or do I hate myself? Panting.

“Who is it?”

Silence.

I turned around, slightly irritated. Perhaps, just perhaps, I had wished to see his figure, positioned behind me, laying a hand on my shoulder. Instead, it was an elderly man, limping athwart the room with a pale envelope in his hand.

“For you.” I grimaced as he handed it to me, fingers trembling.

I opened it hastily as the words revealed themselves:

Dear Hiro,

Twenty years had passed since we talked. I still feel remorse for that night when I was not there to help Seiko as you were absent. Yet, I hope that you should understand. I did help: I had rushed into the accommodation and to the second floor, finding the walls collapsed and the door unable to budge. When I found her, she had already suffocated. I’m sorry that I didn’t inform you of this. I’m sorry for a lot of things. Forgive me, Hiro.



Father, please hand this to Hiro when I die.