Grand Prize Winner

An Inu-Yasha Fanfiction
By Bridget E. Wilde

The Cherry Blossom Journal, c. 1105 (excerpts)


<Third Month, First Day>

     These journals have been lying here empty since my father
went to join my mother in the Pure Land. It was never that I had
not the words to fill them - the reams of poems stacked upon the
shelves around me are testament to that - but rather that I have
never had a life meant to be immortalized on paper. I am not one
of those glittering court ladies languishing gracefully beneath
twenty or more robes; with no father to sponsor me, I have not
even been to court, and my robes are threadbare and much mended.
The servants of the house have faded away like so much mist,
leaving only my nursemaid, too old now to find a new position,
and myself, tepidly playing the roles of fine noblewoman and
devoted servant. When each day is much like the other, what need
is there to commemorate it?
 
     But this morning something has happened that I could never
have expected, here where none pass by my gates. It is yet secret
from old Naishi, the letter tucked carefully into the folds of my
robes where I can hear it rustle as I move.

     I have an admirer.

     Perhaps I should start earlier, last evening, when I stepped
down into our unkempt garden after our evening meal. We had been
reading one of the novels my father had once obtained for me, and
in hearing of the Shining Prince Genji, I was filled with a deep
sorrow, where once I had found joy. 

     There is a cherry tree in our garden, planted by my father
just where I could see it from my shuttered windows. I remember
his laughing face as he lifted me up to touch the topmost branch
of the sapling, then sat beneath its barely-spreading branches
and gazed with me up at the sky, at the arcane message the
branches wrote upon it. _One day they will bloom,_ he said
gently. _Bloom with such beauty and fragrance that you can
scarcely bear it._ He did not tell me then that the cherry
blossoms are doomed before they bud, that they bloom only to
fall, to die.

     It has not mattered, of course, because there have been no
blooms, though the tree dutifully grows leaves in its time, and
has grown to nearly twice my height. Each spring I have watched
in vain for buds, tested the evening breeze for scent, but the
tree holds back its charms from me, as if I am not worthy of its
blessings.

     As I walked around the garden in the lingering chill of
early spring, my eyes were drawn to that cherry tree, and on
impulse I fetched my writing box and jotted down a poem by
lamplight.

     Bare as the branches
     Of this cruel cherry tree,
     Never knowing spring -
     My heart awaits a visit
     From a Shining Prince of dreams.

     I laughed a little at myself as I wrote it - maudlin, I
thought to myself, and hardly worth the writing. But moved by
that same strange impulse. I folded the poem into a neat strip,
and knotted the paper carefully about a low branch of the cherry
tree. "Instead of blossoms, you bear secrets," I said softly, my
hands trembling at their labor. 

     Lamp oil is expensive, and so I retired to my room, thanking
Naishi as I do each night, kissing her papery forehead. It was
still too chill to leave my shutters open, but for just a moment
I looked out at that lonely knot of paper, lit blue-white by the
moon to shine like a beacon among the dark branches of the tree.
It was foolish, this little conceit of mine, but as I gazed at
it, I found myself wishing for something I still cannot find
words for.

     This morning, my poem was gone. The wind must have carried
it away, I thought sadly, and shivered a bit.

     It was not until just a few moments ago that I found the
note, tucked just inside my writing box so that its corner peeked
out. For a moment I thought I had been lax when I packed up my
implements the night before, but when I moved to tuck it inside,
I realized that the heavy lavender paper was not my own, and
pulled it forth in wonder.

     The calligraphy was graceful and firm, but there was a
strange quality to it that I couldn't quite grasp, the strokes
weighted in odd places. It began with a poem,

     "A surprising bloom
     Adorns these stubborn branches;
     One who is watching
     Cannot hold back from plucking
     The branch that announces Spring.

     One would hardly expect to find such a treasure here in the
wilds of the capital." It was unsigned.

     I could barely breathe as I reread the poem. Had some
nobleman peeked in through a crack in my garden wall, then? Even
now the thought sends my fingers to shaking. I cannot say I am in
love - and yet, the very thought of this admiration has set me
aquiver. 

     Just a few moments ago, I finally set brush to paper again.

     "How very foolish!
     Shall I spend all of today
     Lost in pending thought,
     My heart bewitched by someone
     Neither seen nor yet unseen? (1)
     I am at a disadvantage here."

     I have just fastened it to the tree where my first poem
rested, and find myself shaking. Will there be a reply? I had
never realized how the very possibility of love could be so
heady. 


<Third Month, Twelfth Day

     I have not written down all that has happened for several
days because my hand has been shaking too much. Each night, I
have written a poem and fastened it to the tree, and each morning
it has been gone, and a reply tucked carefully into my writing
box, each time thrilling me with its devotion.
  
     He has been hinting that he wishes to visit me, and I found
myself wishing for the same. Last night, I penned him this poem:

     Were I to send word,
     "The moon is fine, and the night
     is also pleasant,"
     it would be like saying, "Come."
     It is not that I do not wait.(2)

     As I lay in the moonlight wondering what he should reply, I
heard a rustling from the doorway, and looked up to see a man,
his face hidden in shadows. I gasped despite myself, but could
not think what else to do, but he simply seated himself near the
door, and began to speak. He had a slow voice, but resonant and
deep, and as he spoke I realized that it was he, my admirer.

     I have never known what it was that happened between a man
and a woman - only that it takes place behind screens, in the
night. None of the great writers have put it into words, and I...
I find I have not the words to describe his visit myself, only
that when the moon shone full on his white hair, he glowed like
the moon himself, and that when I woke from a moment's slumber to
morning and an empty room, I was filled with unbearable light.


<Third Month, Nineteenth Day>

     Naishi is dead.     I do not know where her body has gone,
but her blood still sinks into the loamy earth of the garden, the
smell lingering heavily on the air.

     My lover has visited me every night for a week, his
attentions growing ever more devoted. Last night, though, as I
sat at my evening meal watching the sky begin to darken, I heard
a terrible noise from the garden, and saw a fiery light.

     When I stepped out to the veranda, my knees weakened and I
fell to the floor when I saw what awaited me. A dog it was,
though a dog of such a size had never been seen in the land of
Wa. It towered above the bushes and trees, its paws greater than
the mossy rocks, its silvery coat gleaming like silk.

     It gazed at me with its blood-red eyes, and bared its teeth.
<I bring you greetings, Lesser Wife.>

     I could not comprehend its words, not even as it minced
towards me, its paws delicate and terrible.

     <You have no idea, do you?> it asked in a mocking growl.
<You don't know what you've done. But I am his First Wife, mother
of his son, and I cannot allow you to live.> I could feel the
beast's hot breath; its teeth dripped venom as it approached. It
was about to devour me, and I could not move.

     It was then, as a paw lashed out to remove my head, that
Naishi stepped forward with a rake, her frail body taking the
blow meant for me. 

     I cried out, and there was a terrible roar that I cowered
from; when I looked up again, there was not one demon dog, but
two. The new arrival stood between us, the rumble of his growl
echoing off the walls of the garden. Naishi's broken body lay
just beneath my cherry tree, blood flowing freely onto the grass.

     <You forget your place, Wife,> the newcomer growled, his
white fur bristling. <This human is not for you to kill.>
  
     Naishi's killer snapped her jaws together, eyes narrowing
bitterly. <You will regret that you strayed,> she hissed, lunging
forward with a strike at his throat. 

     They battled then, their great furred bodies rolling
bloodily around before me, fangs and claws tearing out clumps of
fur. It seemed an eternity before one of them fled growling into
the night, leaving a trail of sparks like a falling star. 

     The beast that remained turned to me, and stalked in my
direction, its yellow eyes gleaming like fire. I could not still
my trembling, and closed my eyes in anticipation of my own death.
I could hear its heavy breath growing closer, sense the weight of
the air...

     But then a gentle hand fell upon my shoulder, and I opened
my eyes to see my lover kneeling beside me, his silken robes torn
and streaked with blood. I fell forward into his lap, tears of
grief wracking me. He gave me wordless comfort, then when my
tears were spent drew me up to look at his face. His golden eyes
burned into me, and I shivered with love and fear.

     "You will be safe," he said at last. "Safe."

     I slept then, and woke this morning to the sound of activity
in the house. Workmen were busy tending the garden, and a
beautiful woman I had never seen before brought me breakfast.
When I asked her how she and the others had come there, she
simply smiled, and said, "The Prince sent us." Her tawny, bushy
tail twitched merrily as she began to straighten up my room.

     So now I write again, gazing out at the powdery sky of late
spring. There is an odd clarity to the air, as if the garden and
house were surrounded by a bubble - but it is undoubtedly just my
fancy. Were it not for the traces of blood, for Naishi's absence,
I would think last night to have been a dream, but now... I find
myself wondering who my Prince is, whether I should love him or
fear him.

     I do not think I can bear it if he stays away tonight.


<Fifth Month, Twenty-first Day>

     There is no more denying the signs; I shall bear my lover a
child this coming spring. I finally told him last night; the news
made his eyes glow brighter, and he placed a gentle hand upon my
still-flat stomach.

     "It will be a boy," he said presently. "A son."

     "Or a girl," I said teasingly. "Daughters are a valuable
commodity."

     "No, it is a son," he said with certainty, flashing his
sharp white teeth in the smile I loved so. "You must let me name
him." 

     "Of course," I said softly, admiring how our hair mingled
black and white upon the coverlet. He came to me in many forms
now, and I had grown to love them all, but most of all when his
hair was long and white and soft as down.

     The servants he sent have already begun the preparations,
selecting silks for the young prince's garments, cleaning and
organizing. I am not to do anything, they say, but bear a healthy
son, and so I look out at the sky. It is oddly dark despite the
sunlight, as if smoke obscures its blue; but the sun still feels
strong, the heat of summer intense and humid. Now and then, I
seem to see another light shining through the fog - twin lights,
I should say, red and baleful - but I feel safe and protected
despite them, recalling my Prince's words of comfort. Little
Myouga keeps me company on my veranda, buzzing happily in my ears
as I write.

     I wonder what his name will be, my little prince?


<Second Month, Twenty-eighth Day>

     I am barely able to sit up, but I must write of this while
it is fresh in my mind. My son was born the night before last -
it was a son, of course - and I recall little of it except for
the flames of warming braziers, the chants of those who waited
outside. But in the end he was placed in my arms, his downy white
head pressed close to my breast, his tail twitching in
contentment. I could not help but marvel at his tiny hands, his
perfectly formed ears. He looked so like his father that I wept -
though I think he may have my eyes. 

     The next day passed fretfully, with the servants making
preparations for their lord's visit; I rested as I was bidden,
and yet when he arrived at nightfall, he had barely come to me
when I fell asleep, curled up against him, our son warm between
us.

     I awoke to moonlight and a curious scent, heady and
enticing. My son and my lover were both gone, and from the garden
I heard the baying of wolves, the cries of dogs and foxes, the
roars of bears, and above all, the steady beat of a drum... I
slipped to the window and gazed out in wonder.

     My cherry tree was in bloom, its flowers glowing in the
moonlight, and below it I could see my son nestled in a basket,
wrapped in glowing red silk. Around the tree danced beasts in a
wide circle, their steps slow and measured, as if performing a
ritual older than the moon above them. As I watched, the beasts
changed, melted - sometimes dancing on four legs, sometimes on
two, sometimes taking the shapes of my servants - but always
maintaining that otherworldly rhythm. 

     With a bound, one figure broke from the line of dancers - a
great white dog, his eyes glowing yellow. His swishing tail
brushed blossoms from the cherry tree, sending them falling like
snow. He bent his head over my son's bed, sniffing delicately as
if savoring the taste, then lifted his head.

     <Inu-yasha,> he said in his rich, mellifluous voice. <His
name is Inu-yasha.> With that, the dancing ceased, and a great
baying rose up from the assembled multitude.

     The beast turned his head towards me, grinning. How I loved
his smile. At that moment, my sore body mattered nothing; I
raised the shutters, and stepped forth. The gathered beasts fell
back before me, silence spreading like mist as I slowly processed
towards my waiting family. I gathered my son into my arms, and
gazed up into the eyes of my love, his dear white head surrounded
by blossoms, and behind them, the dark murky sky, and the
now-familiar gleam of two red eyes, waiting.

     I laughed.

     "Not even thunder,
     the god whose stride roars and booms
     all through the heavens,
     might contrive to force apart
     two who love one another." (3)
  


Author's Note:
This is modeled after the poetic diaries that were popular in
Heian Japan. Poems with numbers after them are taken from the
Kokinshu, an early imperial poetry anthology; the rest are
original. 
(1) Poem by Ariwara Narihira no Ason, from the Kokinshu, #476
(2) Author unknown, Kokinshu #692
(3) Author unknown, Kokinshu #701