Post by devilinthedetails on Nov 1, 2020 11:47:48 GMT 10
Title: An Autumn Dance
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Dance
Summary: A young Yuki performs an autumn dance for her family in the Yamani Islands.
An Autumn Dance
Second Mother, the only concubine of Yuki’s father, was childless. It was a tragedy for her, a cause of nighttime sorrows and sleeplessness and burning incense to Yama in temples, but—in the difficult, painful way of truth—an advantage for the four noh Daiomoru children. An advantage because she diverted the considerable river of her affection and energy into Yuki and Yuki’s three brothers instead of any offspring of her own body that could have competed with Yuki and her siblings for Father’s love, honor, and attention.
Yuki was six the year of her autumn dance and fall. Her oldest brother Ryo was nineteen with his nose often buried in scrolls as he prepared with his severe, stone-faced tutor for the first round of civil service examinations that determined who could rise in rank and power at the imperial court. Kei, her second brother, was two years younger than Ryo but already taller and more muscular, and training in the military arts to become one of the emperor’s elite warriors.
Akira, the beloved and indulged baby of the family, was two and toddling about the garden, tripping happily into piled, fallen spotted laurel leaves that autumn. His thighs would pump eagerly when she opened her arms and beckoned to him, and his cheeks were soft and plump as gyoza dumplings stuffed with minced pork and vegetables. Yuki remembered that. She would always remember that.
Their father, a respected general in the emperor’s army, was home at the end of a long campaign season. His being home was another reason she knew it was autumn in her memories when she revisited in her mind that day of her great mistake. That and the fallen spotted laurel leaves.
Yuki, who had been diligently studying dance all summer with an instructor hired by Mother and Second Mother, was to offer a performance to the entire family on a stage in the garden on a bright, festive morning with everyone home.
It was a windy morning, Yuki recalled that, and believed even years after her humiliation that it was the wind that was to blame for her failure. In the garden that morning, she had fallen like a spotted laurel leaf, the only time she had done that after the dozen rehearsals she had made in the week before for Mother, Second Mother, and her dance instructor. Yet, with Mother, Second Mother, Father, and all three of her brothers watching, with the dramatic accompaniment of the flutist hired to play for her, she had spun on her heel too far halfway through her dance.
She had lost her balance, tried desperately to regain it with the blood pounding like a drum in her ears, wobbled the other way as she overcorrected and overcompensated for her error, and tumbled woefully off the stage to land in a pile of leaves as if she were no older than Akira, who squealed in delight when he played in them.
No one laughed. She remembered that because the silence echoed in her head for years after. In a certain cruel mood, Ryo might have chuckled caustically, but he didn’t.
Yuki sat up, her dragonfly-emblazoned kimono covered in leaves and stained with dirt. She could feel the blood draining from her face, leaving her cheeks white as broken shards of porcelain. Glancing around her, she saw the immediate, gentle concern in his eyes and might have fled to him for a comforting embrace if she hadn’t next noticed his almost-masked amusement at his ungainly, short-legged little girl-child. The half-moon smile he hid behind his hand.
That half moon smile hid behind a hand had made her scramble to her feet and lurch clumsily from the garden, weeping uncontrollably. She had wanted to show her father—show her whole family—how she was growing up and wasn’t a toddler like Akira any longer. Instead she had demonstrated the exact opposite. The knife-sharp shame welling in her breast like a tsunami was beyond enduring.
Ryu found her first, in the orchard beneath the shade of her favorite persimmon tree at the farthest end of a row by the wall encircling the orchard. She was sprawled on the ground, staining her kimono with smashed persimmon fruit to match the dirt, her face buried in the crook of her arm. She had cried herself to the cusp of exhaustion by then and refused to look up at Ryu when she heard him approaching.
“Sit up!” he commanded with a grunt as he crouched down beside her. He was so rotund that it wasn’t an effortless or natural position for him.
In the Yamani Islands, it simply wasn’t done for a sister to ignore a direct instruction from an eldest brother. It could get a girl whipped or starved in families more strict than Yuki’s.
Yuki sat up, faced him with the salty tracks of her tears still visible on her cheeks, and remembered to bow her head respectfully with her hands pressed together.
His voice controlled, precise, and not at all the tone in which one addressed a child, Ryu declared, “Here is what you will learn from this. We train to avoid mistakes, and we do not go before others to present our skills until we believe we have trained enough to perform our skills flawlessly. That is the first lesson. Do you understand?”
Yuki nodded, wide eyes fixed on the chubby flesh of her brother’s round face. That year he had the stubbly beginnings of a black beard and mustache.
Gravely, he continued, “Nonetheless, because we are not gods nor of the imperial clan, we cannot ever be certain of being flawless. It is not given to ordinary men and especially not to women to be flawless. Therefore, this is the second thing you will remember. If we are in public and we err, if we fall into leaves, stumble in speech, or bow too many times or too few, we continue as if we had not done so. Do you understand?”
Yuki’s head bobbed in another miserable nod.
“If we stop, if we apologize, show dismay, run from the garden or the chamber, we force our audience to mark our error and observe how it has shamed us,” her eldest brother finished. “If we carry on, we treat it as something that falls to the lot of men and women under heaven, and show that our failure has not mastered us. That it does not signify and that we are stronger than it. And you, little sister, will always remember not only yourself but this entire family in everything you do. Do you understand?”
A third time, Yuki nodded her head.
“Say it,” her brother ordered crisply as the wind blowing at their clothes and hair. The wind that had made her fall during her dance.
“I understand,” replied Yuki clearly as she could manage. Six years old with mud and overripe persimmon sticky on her face, palms, and kimono. Representing her family in all she did.
He stared at her a moment and it was impossible to tell what he saw in her small, humbled figure. Then he rose with another grunt and strode down the long row and out of the orchard where Yuki had taken refuge.
A little later, Kei joined her in the orchard, and Yuki suspected that he must have waited for Ryo to leave before going to her as a second brother should.
This time, Yuki watched her brother approach and saw how he smiled when he drew near to her as she had known he would smile. The smile might not have been unexpected, but what was unanticipated was the basin of water and towel he bore that suggested he must have predicted she would be lying on muddy ground, dirtying herself.
Cross-legged, he settled himself on the ground across from her. Careless of his own silken robes and slippers, he placed the basin between them, draping the towel elaborately over his forearm as a servant might.
She had thought he might contort his features into a funny expression to try to force a giggle from her, and she was determined not to laugh (she almost always did when he made a funny face at her), but he didn’t do that. Instead, he just waited, and, after a moment’s quiet, Yuki dipped her cupped hands into the water, washing her cheeks, hands, and arms. There was nothing, she thought mournfully, that she could do about her dragonfly kimono.
Kei offered her the towel and she dried herself. He accepted the towel when she returned it to him, emptied the basin of water, and put both the towel and basin beside him.
“Better,” he remarked, winking at her.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
A silence fell between them, and, years later, she would remember it as a comfortable one. Kei was easy and comfortable to be with unlike the prickly Ryo. As a girl, she had admired both her elder brothers, but it was Kei she had loved with all the loyalty in her innocent heart.
“I fell like a leaf or a toddler,” she muttered, still embarrassed by her failure during what should have been her special autumn dance.
“I know.” He reached out to squeeze her wrist with his strong fingers. “It must have felt awful. You looked forward to dancing for us so much.”
Not trusting her voice not to betray her with shaking, Yuki only nodded.
“It was very good, Yuki,” he went on kindly. “Until the wind picked up. I started worrying when I felt the wind pick up.”
She looked at him, trying to discern whether his praise was in earnest or only designed to make her feel better about her fall. Studying him closely, she decided that he was in earnest.
“Perhaps…” Kei stroked his chin as he offered this suggestion. “Perhaps next time, maybe even tonight, you might do your dance inside? I believe the wind is a reason professional dancers dislike performing outside. The wind is an unpredictable element. Any breeze can affect how their clothing flows about them, messing up their balance, and they can fall like a leaf.”
“I didn’t know.” Yuki bit her lip. “Do the professional dancers truly prefer to perform inside?”
“For certain they do.” Kei tweaked her nose. “You were very brave to do it on a garden stage during a windy autumn morning.”
For a heartbeat, she had allowed herself to claim and cling to the notion that she had been brave. Then, she shook her head, determined to be honest with herself and her brother. “No. I just did it where Mother and my dance instructor decided. I wasn’t brave. I was only obedient.”
“Yuki.” Kei grinned as he pronounced her name. “Just saying that makes you both truthful and brave. That truthfulness and bravery will be with you always, not only when you’re six. I’m proud of you, and so was Father. I saw the pride in his eyes as he watched you dance this morning. Will you dance again for us inside tonight?”
“He was”— Yuki’s mouth trembled as she struggled to shape the words—“Father was almost laughing.”
Kei lapsed into a thoughtful quiet before responding, “Do you know a truth about people? When someone falls, if they don’t hurt themselves, it is funny, little sister. I don’t know why. Do you have an idea?”
“I don’t know why,” she said, cracking a smile at last. “But I do grin and giggle when Akira topples into leaves.”
“And Father didn’t laugh at you.” Kei squeezed her wrist again. “He was worried that you had hurt yourself at first. Then when he saw that you were uninjured, he was afraid that he would wound your pride if he smiled, so he didn’t.”
“I saw him try to hide it.” Yuki was certain that memory would be etched into her mind forever. “He covered his mouth with his hand.”
“He’s very proud of you, Yuki.” Kei’s gaze locked on hers. “He said he hopes you’ll try again.”
“Did he?” Hope burst like a firework inside Yuki. “Truly, Kei?”
“Truly.” Kei had ruffled her hair, and she had followed him from the orchard, Kei bringing the basin and towel back to the house.
That night, she danced again for her family in the largest reception room in front of bamboo screens and between carefully spaced lanterns, and she didn’t fall once. Throughout her performance, her father beamed with radiant pride. When she came up to him after the dance, he patted her cheek then gave her a string of copper coins as if she were a real hired dancer and a rice cake stuffed with sweet red bean filling from his pocket because she was six.
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Dance
Summary: A young Yuki performs an autumn dance for her family in the Yamani Islands.
An Autumn Dance
Second Mother, the only concubine of Yuki’s father, was childless. It was a tragedy for her, a cause of nighttime sorrows and sleeplessness and burning incense to Yama in temples, but—in the difficult, painful way of truth—an advantage for the four noh Daiomoru children. An advantage because she diverted the considerable river of her affection and energy into Yuki and Yuki’s three brothers instead of any offspring of her own body that could have competed with Yuki and her siblings for Father’s love, honor, and attention.
Yuki was six the year of her autumn dance and fall. Her oldest brother Ryo was nineteen with his nose often buried in scrolls as he prepared with his severe, stone-faced tutor for the first round of civil service examinations that determined who could rise in rank and power at the imperial court. Kei, her second brother, was two years younger than Ryo but already taller and more muscular, and training in the military arts to become one of the emperor’s elite warriors.
Akira, the beloved and indulged baby of the family, was two and toddling about the garden, tripping happily into piled, fallen spotted laurel leaves that autumn. His thighs would pump eagerly when she opened her arms and beckoned to him, and his cheeks were soft and plump as gyoza dumplings stuffed with minced pork and vegetables. Yuki remembered that. She would always remember that.
Their father, a respected general in the emperor’s army, was home at the end of a long campaign season. His being home was another reason she knew it was autumn in her memories when she revisited in her mind that day of her great mistake. That and the fallen spotted laurel leaves.
Yuki, who had been diligently studying dance all summer with an instructor hired by Mother and Second Mother, was to offer a performance to the entire family on a stage in the garden on a bright, festive morning with everyone home.
It was a windy morning, Yuki recalled that, and believed even years after her humiliation that it was the wind that was to blame for her failure. In the garden that morning, she had fallen like a spotted laurel leaf, the only time she had done that after the dozen rehearsals she had made in the week before for Mother, Second Mother, and her dance instructor. Yet, with Mother, Second Mother, Father, and all three of her brothers watching, with the dramatic accompaniment of the flutist hired to play for her, she had spun on her heel too far halfway through her dance.
She had lost her balance, tried desperately to regain it with the blood pounding like a drum in her ears, wobbled the other way as she overcorrected and overcompensated for her error, and tumbled woefully off the stage to land in a pile of leaves as if she were no older than Akira, who squealed in delight when he played in them.
No one laughed. She remembered that because the silence echoed in her head for years after. In a certain cruel mood, Ryo might have chuckled caustically, but he didn’t.
Yuki sat up, her dragonfly-emblazoned kimono covered in leaves and stained with dirt. She could feel the blood draining from her face, leaving her cheeks white as broken shards of porcelain. Glancing around her, she saw the immediate, gentle concern in his eyes and might have fled to him for a comforting embrace if she hadn’t next noticed his almost-masked amusement at his ungainly, short-legged little girl-child. The half-moon smile he hid behind his hand.
That half moon smile hid behind a hand had made her scramble to her feet and lurch clumsily from the garden, weeping uncontrollably. She had wanted to show her father—show her whole family—how she was growing up and wasn’t a toddler like Akira any longer. Instead she had demonstrated the exact opposite. The knife-sharp shame welling in her breast like a tsunami was beyond enduring.
Ryu found her first, in the orchard beneath the shade of her favorite persimmon tree at the farthest end of a row by the wall encircling the orchard. She was sprawled on the ground, staining her kimono with smashed persimmon fruit to match the dirt, her face buried in the crook of her arm. She had cried herself to the cusp of exhaustion by then and refused to look up at Ryu when she heard him approaching.
“Sit up!” he commanded with a grunt as he crouched down beside her. He was so rotund that it wasn’t an effortless or natural position for him.
In the Yamani Islands, it simply wasn’t done for a sister to ignore a direct instruction from an eldest brother. It could get a girl whipped or starved in families more strict than Yuki’s.
Yuki sat up, faced him with the salty tracks of her tears still visible on her cheeks, and remembered to bow her head respectfully with her hands pressed together.
His voice controlled, precise, and not at all the tone in which one addressed a child, Ryu declared, “Here is what you will learn from this. We train to avoid mistakes, and we do not go before others to present our skills until we believe we have trained enough to perform our skills flawlessly. That is the first lesson. Do you understand?”
Yuki nodded, wide eyes fixed on the chubby flesh of her brother’s round face. That year he had the stubbly beginnings of a black beard and mustache.
Gravely, he continued, “Nonetheless, because we are not gods nor of the imperial clan, we cannot ever be certain of being flawless. It is not given to ordinary men and especially not to women to be flawless. Therefore, this is the second thing you will remember. If we are in public and we err, if we fall into leaves, stumble in speech, or bow too many times or too few, we continue as if we had not done so. Do you understand?”
Yuki’s head bobbed in another miserable nod.
“If we stop, if we apologize, show dismay, run from the garden or the chamber, we force our audience to mark our error and observe how it has shamed us,” her eldest brother finished. “If we carry on, we treat it as something that falls to the lot of men and women under heaven, and show that our failure has not mastered us. That it does not signify and that we are stronger than it. And you, little sister, will always remember not only yourself but this entire family in everything you do. Do you understand?”
A third time, Yuki nodded her head.
“Say it,” her brother ordered crisply as the wind blowing at their clothes and hair. The wind that had made her fall during her dance.
“I understand,” replied Yuki clearly as she could manage. Six years old with mud and overripe persimmon sticky on her face, palms, and kimono. Representing her family in all she did.
He stared at her a moment and it was impossible to tell what he saw in her small, humbled figure. Then he rose with another grunt and strode down the long row and out of the orchard where Yuki had taken refuge.
A little later, Kei joined her in the orchard, and Yuki suspected that he must have waited for Ryo to leave before going to her as a second brother should.
This time, Yuki watched her brother approach and saw how he smiled when he drew near to her as she had known he would smile. The smile might not have been unexpected, but what was unanticipated was the basin of water and towel he bore that suggested he must have predicted she would be lying on muddy ground, dirtying herself.
Cross-legged, he settled himself on the ground across from her. Careless of his own silken robes and slippers, he placed the basin between them, draping the towel elaborately over his forearm as a servant might.
She had thought he might contort his features into a funny expression to try to force a giggle from her, and she was determined not to laugh (she almost always did when he made a funny face at her), but he didn’t do that. Instead, he just waited, and, after a moment’s quiet, Yuki dipped her cupped hands into the water, washing her cheeks, hands, and arms. There was nothing, she thought mournfully, that she could do about her dragonfly kimono.
Kei offered her the towel and she dried herself. He accepted the towel when she returned it to him, emptied the basin of water, and put both the towel and basin beside him.
“Better,” he remarked, winking at her.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
A silence fell between them, and, years later, she would remember it as a comfortable one. Kei was easy and comfortable to be with unlike the prickly Ryo. As a girl, she had admired both her elder brothers, but it was Kei she had loved with all the loyalty in her innocent heart.
“I fell like a leaf or a toddler,” she muttered, still embarrassed by her failure during what should have been her special autumn dance.
“I know.” He reached out to squeeze her wrist with his strong fingers. “It must have felt awful. You looked forward to dancing for us so much.”
Not trusting her voice not to betray her with shaking, Yuki only nodded.
“It was very good, Yuki,” he went on kindly. “Until the wind picked up. I started worrying when I felt the wind pick up.”
She looked at him, trying to discern whether his praise was in earnest or only designed to make her feel better about her fall. Studying him closely, she decided that he was in earnest.
“Perhaps…” Kei stroked his chin as he offered this suggestion. “Perhaps next time, maybe even tonight, you might do your dance inside? I believe the wind is a reason professional dancers dislike performing outside. The wind is an unpredictable element. Any breeze can affect how their clothing flows about them, messing up their balance, and they can fall like a leaf.”
“I didn’t know.” Yuki bit her lip. “Do the professional dancers truly prefer to perform inside?”
“For certain they do.” Kei tweaked her nose. “You were very brave to do it on a garden stage during a windy autumn morning.”
For a heartbeat, she had allowed herself to claim and cling to the notion that she had been brave. Then, she shook her head, determined to be honest with herself and her brother. “No. I just did it where Mother and my dance instructor decided. I wasn’t brave. I was only obedient.”
“Yuki.” Kei grinned as he pronounced her name. “Just saying that makes you both truthful and brave. That truthfulness and bravery will be with you always, not only when you’re six. I’m proud of you, and so was Father. I saw the pride in his eyes as he watched you dance this morning. Will you dance again for us inside tonight?”
“He was”— Yuki’s mouth trembled as she struggled to shape the words—“Father was almost laughing.”
Kei lapsed into a thoughtful quiet before responding, “Do you know a truth about people? When someone falls, if they don’t hurt themselves, it is funny, little sister. I don’t know why. Do you have an idea?”
“I don’t know why,” she said, cracking a smile at last. “But I do grin and giggle when Akira topples into leaves.”
“And Father didn’t laugh at you.” Kei squeezed her wrist again. “He was worried that you had hurt yourself at first. Then when he saw that you were uninjured, he was afraid that he would wound your pride if he smiled, so he didn’t.”
“I saw him try to hide it.” Yuki was certain that memory would be etched into her mind forever. “He covered his mouth with his hand.”
“He’s very proud of you, Yuki.” Kei’s gaze locked on hers. “He said he hopes you’ll try again.”
“Did he?” Hope burst like a firework inside Yuki. “Truly, Kei?”
“Truly.” Kei had ruffled her hair, and she had followed him from the orchard, Kei bringing the basin and towel back to the house.
That night, she danced again for her family in the largest reception room in front of bamboo screens and between carefully spaced lanterns, and she didn’t fall once. Throughout her performance, her father beamed with radiant pride. When she came up to him after the dance, he patted her cheek then gave her a string of copper coins as if she were a real hired dancer and a rice cake stuffed with sweet red bean filling from his pocket because she was six.