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Dog Days
Mornings are a routine affair. It starts at the horizon with the black pitch of the night giving way to the smoldering hues of a smokey summer dawn. The sun peaks out over the mantel of the world and casts it's brush over everything in its sight. It paints life into the landscape, an affectionate gesture expressed in savage greens and soaring blues and an explosion of pink and yellow and whole palettes of colors unnamed except by creatures with no voice to utter them. But they stir under their spell all the same.
Two such, rouse later than most one lazy but otherwise unremarkable Saturday in June. Cloistered together in a stifling nest of limbs and futon covers, the morning breeze still carries the sweet refreshment of the night air unadulterated by the sun's affection. On the veranda outside their room, a chime stirs. It competes with the morning refrain of waking birds and whispering trees, like nature's call to prayer.
Eventually, the tendrils of light find their way through the cracks in the bamboo blinds, edge their way up the supine forms laying on tatami that smells dusky and leeches glowing motes into the air with every slight disturbance. It tickles his nose. But it isn't till the light burns against his closed eyes that he finally stirs. Slowly. Reluctant to leave night's embrace so he leaves over and bids it farewell with a kiss and a hope that it will follow.
Instead it drags him back down for another, into the crevice between their mattresses that split during their previous exertion. He thinks today of all days, there's no harm in indulging him this much, without admitting the necessity of indulging himself.
"Good morning, Kane-san," he says, on a shared breath with noses close enough to touch. In some parts of the world beneath it's the sun's vast curtain, this too would be considered a kiss and that strikes him as awfully convenient, better than holding hands, not quite as sincere as what the paper doors and futons hide.
The room swirls around them fighting between shadowy beige and brown and the enlightened chartreuse of their floor mats, fresh this spring. But all of it dims in the face of Kanesada's liquid gaze and airy flush that is his favorite shade of red. For once he isn't glaring at being woken so abruptly.
"I suppose it's time..." Kanesada says and he nods in reply.
They emerge from their cocoon, Kanesada helping him to his feet. They dress in close proximity, gathering the yukata that had crumpled to the floor somewhere between the door and the bed. Without a word, he folds Kanesada's robe, left over right, wonders how appropriate that is, then shakes the thought from mind. As he smooths the fabric into crisp lines, his fingers brush the broad plane of Kanesada's chest. It's a warm invitation. He raises his eyes but can't meet his face, transfixed instead by the dappled bruising that mars his collar. He wants to offer his blessing, a panacea of words or just his lips. He secures the yukata with a narrow belt instead, fingers searching blind and practiced till it settles just right, above the subtle swell of his hips.
Kanesada returns the favor. Though he stumbles through it with a bit less grace. The knot rests slightly lopsided against his back.
"How do you do it without even looking?"
"Practice. Now lets practice putting away the futons."
On routine mornings this would earn a retort, a grumble, or on days when he couldn't even be bothered to lift his head, the sound of air being sucked through his teeth. The protestations of a sword drafted into service he was never meant to perform.
Today had no space for routine.
Together they wrestle with the trappings of their slumber. It takes a scant ten minutes before it's all folded up and compressed to his satisfaction. With Kanesada it's quick work. And one by one he deposits mattresses and covers alike into his arms. Kanesada's height make it an easy job where he would struggled to see over the top himself.
With everything tucked away, Kanesada turns to his chest of fine-grained camphor wood. The vessel contains his moderate collection of personal effects, clothes mostly, a few extra rings, a broken phone and resting crisp and pristine atop it all, a white envelope embossed in black calligraphy of a strong unschooled hand. He retrieves the letter and closes the box which exhales its pungent earthy perfume as the lid shuts.
Kanesada faces him again to find him holding a bundle of green incense and, in contrast, a slim lighter of equal length.
Tucked into the far wall of their room is a recessed alcove that held the house shrine, or perhaps room shrine more appropriately with at least one occupying almost every residence in the citadel. It had been prepared the night before with the minimal effects of an altar. There was the cyprus shrine itself, a lacquered bowl for the incense surrounded by small raised trays of food. White rice resided across from three tiers of sugar cakes in near offensive shades of artificial pink and yellow and green. Flanking the sides, a pair of immodest bouquets of lupines and sunflowers and hydrangeas.
He looks up; their eyes meet. Outside the child like sound of the smallest swords racing down porticoed halls disrupts the sound of the birds.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and his attentions falls on the envelope.
"Do I get to read it?" The quirk of his lips was not solemn.
Turning it over in hand a mind, Kanesada ponders the question a moment longer than usual. "You'll just make fun of it."
"That's called constructive criticism."
"From one unqualified to give it.
"And what about your brother. Is he also unqualified?"
"He's not here is he?" Kanesada feigns a frown.
"No. He's not," he agrees, apologetic for the intrusion. And then he moves to kneel before the altar, bringing Kanesada with him, hand in hand.
They sit together, hips brushing against one another, a spectral imitation of their former existence to which they were paying homage. Leaning forward, he lifts the shuttered blinds of the small shrine, no bigger than a shoebox, to reveal a mirror the size of a bottle cap reflecting a thin stream of light and the distorted fraction of their image that it managed to catch.
The sound of paper tearing cuts the air as he splits the bundle of incense and passes half to Kanesada. They take turns lighting the slender pillars together. Then, with the incense pressed together between their palms, they touch it briefly to head, lips and heart where they remain in intimate silence now that the children have made their way to the kitchen and the sun has not stirred the day's insects to deafening song.
For a precise moment, the citadel holds its breath.
It's Kanesada that stirs first, with a rustle of cotton. He deposits the incense upright into the bowl of sand. Then he removes the envelope from his lap and places it in the folds between smoke and shrine.
He follows suit himself, leaving the two bundles inclined ever so slightly toward each other, where the smoke quivers and curls and mingles. Then finally rights itself into a long column in the stagnant calm. The scent of sandlewood and camphor lingers where all other traces of it dissipates.
He exhales. "Do you ever wonder what he would think of us?"
His gaze remains straight as a gunshot but he feels the radiant blister of Kanesada's regard.
"You're dwelling on the past again."
It's presented as fact, clean, free of accusation or judgement. Like history or the future, it simply is.
Kanesada remains a solid presence, in spite of their contradiction, not quite human, not quite spirit, he exudes a confidence that floods the crevices of where his own lacks.
He smiles into the face of the sunflowers. "And what are you doing?"
Anticipating the question, Kanesada recites a tired reply. "Carrying on his legacy. Isn't that enough?"
Already decided for himself, Kanesada folds at the waist and rises artfully to his feet, long hair trailing after him. He feels his own hair mussed by beringed fingers and follows him up as if finally waking from the morning's clear, transparent stupor.
By now the sun is breaking in stunted slats right before the shuttered doors. He touches Kanesada's arm and, together, they turn their back on the shrine to face the day.
Every year the saniwa would give each of his faithful residents a day or two off. It was no coincidence that theirs was shared. And, as before, they would fill it with each other.
Two such, rouse later than most one lazy but otherwise unremarkable Saturday in June. Cloistered together in a stifling nest of limbs and futon covers, the morning breeze still carries the sweet refreshment of the night air unadulterated by the sun's affection. On the veranda outside their room, a chime stirs. It competes with the morning refrain of waking birds and whispering trees, like nature's call to prayer.
Eventually, the tendrils of light find their way through the cracks in the bamboo blinds, edge their way up the supine forms laying on tatami that smells dusky and leeches glowing motes into the air with every slight disturbance. It tickles his nose. But it isn't till the light burns against his closed eyes that he finally stirs. Slowly. Reluctant to leave night's embrace so he leaves over and bids it farewell with a kiss and a hope that it will follow.
Instead it drags him back down for another, into the crevice between their mattresses that split during their previous exertion. He thinks today of all days, there's no harm in indulging him this much, without admitting the necessity of indulging himself.
"Good morning, Kane-san," he says, on a shared breath with noses close enough to touch. In some parts of the world beneath it's the sun's vast curtain, this too would be considered a kiss and that strikes him as awfully convenient, better than holding hands, not quite as sincere as what the paper doors and futons hide.
The room swirls around them fighting between shadowy beige and brown and the enlightened chartreuse of their floor mats, fresh this spring. But all of it dims in the face of Kanesada's liquid gaze and airy flush that is his favorite shade of red. For once he isn't glaring at being woken so abruptly.
"I suppose it's time..." Kanesada says and he nods in reply.
They emerge from their cocoon, Kanesada helping him to his feet. They dress in close proximity, gathering the yukata that had crumpled to the floor somewhere between the door and the bed. Without a word, he folds Kanesada's robe, left over right, wonders how appropriate that is, then shakes the thought from mind. As he smooths the fabric into crisp lines, his fingers brush the broad plane of Kanesada's chest. It's a warm invitation. He raises his eyes but can't meet his face, transfixed instead by the dappled bruising that mars his collar. He wants to offer his blessing, a panacea of words or just his lips. He secures the yukata with a narrow belt instead, fingers searching blind and practiced till it settles just right, above the subtle swell of his hips.
Kanesada returns the favor. Though he stumbles through it with a bit less grace. The knot rests slightly lopsided against his back.
"How do you do it without even looking?"
"Practice. Now lets practice putting away the futons."
On routine mornings this would earn a retort, a grumble, or on days when he couldn't even be bothered to lift his head, the sound of air being sucked through his teeth. The protestations of a sword drafted into service he was never meant to perform.
Today had no space for routine.
Together they wrestle with the trappings of their slumber. It takes a scant ten minutes before it's all folded up and compressed to his satisfaction. With Kanesada it's quick work. And one by one he deposits mattresses and covers alike into his arms. Kanesada's height make it an easy job where he would struggled to see over the top himself.
With everything tucked away, Kanesada turns to his chest of fine-grained camphor wood. The vessel contains his moderate collection of personal effects, clothes mostly, a few extra rings, a broken phone and resting crisp and pristine atop it all, a white envelope embossed in black calligraphy of a strong unschooled hand. He retrieves the letter and closes the box which exhales its pungent earthy perfume as the lid shuts.
Kanesada faces him again to find him holding a bundle of green incense and, in contrast, a slim lighter of equal length.
Tucked into the far wall of their room is a recessed alcove that held the house shrine, or perhaps room shrine more appropriately with at least one occupying almost every residence in the citadel. It had been prepared the night before with the minimal effects of an altar. There was the cyprus shrine itself, a lacquered bowl for the incense surrounded by small raised trays of food. White rice resided across from three tiers of sugar cakes in near offensive shades of artificial pink and yellow and green. Flanking the sides, a pair of immodest bouquets of lupines and sunflowers and hydrangeas.
He looks up; their eyes meet. Outside the child like sound of the smallest swords racing down porticoed halls disrupts the sound of the birds.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and his attentions falls on the envelope.
"Do I get to read it?" The quirk of his lips was not solemn.
Turning it over in hand a mind, Kanesada ponders the question a moment longer than usual. "You'll just make fun of it."
"That's called constructive criticism."
"From one unqualified to give it.
"And what about your brother. Is he also unqualified?"
"He's not here is he?" Kanesada feigns a frown.
"No. He's not," he agrees, apologetic for the intrusion. And then he moves to kneel before the altar, bringing Kanesada with him, hand in hand.
They sit together, hips brushing against one another, a spectral imitation of their former existence to which they were paying homage. Leaning forward, he lifts the shuttered blinds of the small shrine, no bigger than a shoebox, to reveal a mirror the size of a bottle cap reflecting a thin stream of light and the distorted fraction of their image that it managed to catch.
The sound of paper tearing cuts the air as he splits the bundle of incense and passes half to Kanesada. They take turns lighting the slender pillars together. Then, with the incense pressed together between their palms, they touch it briefly to head, lips and heart where they remain in intimate silence now that the children have made their way to the kitchen and the sun has not stirred the day's insects to deafening song.
For a precise moment, the citadel holds its breath.
It's Kanesada that stirs first, with a rustle of cotton. He deposits the incense upright into the bowl of sand. Then he removes the envelope from his lap and places it in the folds between smoke and shrine.
He follows suit himself, leaving the two bundles inclined ever so slightly toward each other, where the smoke quivers and curls and mingles. Then finally rights itself into a long column in the stagnant calm. The scent of sandlewood and camphor lingers where all other traces of it dissipates.
He exhales. "Do you ever wonder what he would think of us?"
His gaze remains straight as a gunshot but he feels the radiant blister of Kanesada's regard.
"You're dwelling on the past again."
It's presented as fact, clean, free of accusation or judgement. Like history or the future, it simply is.
Kanesada remains a solid presence, in spite of their contradiction, not quite human, not quite spirit, he exudes a confidence that floods the crevices of where his own lacks.
He smiles into the face of the sunflowers. "And what are you doing?"
Anticipating the question, Kanesada recites a tired reply. "Carrying on his legacy. Isn't that enough?"
Already decided for himself, Kanesada folds at the waist and rises artfully to his feet, long hair trailing after him. He feels his own hair mussed by beringed fingers and follows him up as if finally waking from the morning's clear, transparent stupor.
By now the sun is breaking in stunted slats right before the shuttered doors. He touches Kanesada's arm and, together, they turn their back on the shrine to face the day.
Every year the saniwa would give each of his faithful residents a day or two off. It was no coincidence that theirs was shared. And, as before, they would fill it with each other.