Paul

Hanging forty feet high from a rope slung across the House’s western face, Paul had an awesome view. In cold-blast lantern form, he beheld beautiful architecture, the fascinating bustle of thousands of busy Tsukumogami, and kept watch over his friends in the quarry throughout the day alongside hundreds of paper lanterns lighting the cavern in meditative silence.

He intended to go the full eight hours to stay with Kouki Chōchin’s shift.

The day had started slowly with a rehashed argument over Cassie. She hadn’t improved during the night, and Rana refused all offers to rotate guard duty. The rest of them elected to focus on recharging their batteries and preparing for battle.

Lea said she’d be planning their strategy, though they didn’t have much information to go on. Tarō volunteered to serve as Cassie’s bed. That gave Kenta a break to study the manor’s architecture. Daniel announced he’d be training all day even if it killed him, and Wendi said she’d spend her time playing with Tsukumogami kids.

Speaking with the lanterns last night had inspired Paul to work ‘A day in the life.’ In general, the Tsukumogami seemed more comfortable around Paul. As an Inorganic and a Tool, he shared much of their perspective.

The lanterns of the Watch celebrated his abilities as a potent addition to their mission—illuminating the House inside and out. To them, there was never enough light, never enough lanterns in their underground dwelling. So, they’d invited Paul, and Kouki talked him into it.

For Paul, shining felt as natural as breathing. It didn’t take any special effort. Staying in one place for eight hours, on the other hand, was a trial. While no punishment awaited his failure, pride demanded he endure.

“We just… hang here?” Paul had asked while hooking his handle through the rope during his shift to lantern form.

“That’s it,” Kouki the paper lantern had replied. “Try not to chat too much—our job is to shine, not talk. Time flies when you’re focused.”

That might be true, but Paul wouldn’t know. He had difficulty concentrating on simple tasks with a galaxy of possibilities unfolding before him each second. Paul constantly swatted Actualizations where he dropped from the line and left. Plus, there was the view.

He saw brooms and feather dusters making their rounds through rooms and verandas, scouring the most recessed corners. Shifts throughout the House were staggered, the air always busy with flyers but never crowded. Below, Paul saw dozens of fluttering cotton streamers converge on the roof. At that moment, each individual shingle stood. As the shingles transformed into flyers and crawlers and departed, the newcomers replaced them as a new set of shingles.

This was the last straw.

:I don’t get it,: he sent to Kouki. :What’s the point of all this? You don’t have many visitors, but you keep everything in pristine condition. You cook food you can’t taste. You work, but your society has no money. You put so much time and effort into maintaining this extravagant mansion, but there’s no one to impress, no one to appreciate it. Why does this House exist? Wouldn’t the Tsukumogami be happier if no one had to work?:

Once Paul said his piece, he realized how arrogant he sounded. He’d insulted their way of life. He half expected to be expelled from the Watch or at least to be berated. Kouki didn’t seem angry.

Instead, the paper lantern laughed, light flickering. :You seem to be mistaken about something, young man. None of the Tsukumogami have to do anything. There’s no law against leisure. We can relax all day if we want.

:What you see is the result of every person taking a few hours of their time, a few days a week, to clean something, do something, or make something to add to the House. Little by little, bit by bit, these pieces become a greater whole.

:The House isn’t here to impress visitors, though it often does. It isn’t here to shelter us like the roof of our cavern, provide for us like the Cornucopia and the river, or even occupy our time as a simple game might. The House exists for itself.:

As all art does, Paul added internally.

Kouki continued, :Decorating and maintaining the House is something we do for ourselves, but also for each other. You’re young, so you must think this job boring. You think you need Power to make a difference. That you need Strength to change the world. That you need to be a Hero to be happy.:

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

He heard a smile in the paper lantern’s voice. :No. All you need is to put your heart into whatever you do. Light up the little patch of ground before you and, slowly—one day at a time—the world will be a bit brighter.:

Kouki lapsed into silence, leaving Paul to ponder.

After a minute of thought, Paul shone a little brighter. He got through those eight hours, zoning out as he focused on making the House a bit more beautiful until the next shift caught him unawares.

Tsukumogami on the ground cranked the rope pulley, lanterns dropping as they were lowered and others grabbing hold to be lifted high. Kouki helped him down, and Paul found Gorou the nutcracker-armed scarecrow waiting nearby to accompany him.

It was too early to return, so Paul sat on the edge of a veranda and surveyed the rock garden. “Make something,” he remembered Kouki’s words. He’d lost his ability to shape wax during the transformation, but perhaps…

He started small but complex to test how detailed he could work. It might have been anything but, sitting in a rock garden, one subject came to mind. Paul found the core of his magic deep in his mind and summoned the materials he used for lenses. Except, this time, he concentrated on a particular image.

Where before, Paul used his Pathfinding abilities to guide his wax shaping, now he used Actualizations. He could take as many tries as he needed sculpting every surface, every curve, every line and twist of glass and metal. Paul admired the results, pleased.

“What’s that?” a curious Tsukumogami asked. A little girl, maybe eight or nine, leaned over his shoulder. She wore a flowery quilt as a robe and fuzzy pink slippers. Smooth fabric skin covered a body with firm mattress foam for flesh, her features surprisingly human.

Her glittering glass eyes stared at his hands. Paul followed her gaze, “A leaf.” He held a transparent replica of a maple leaf threaded with branching metal veins that shone in the lantern light.

“A what?” she asked, confused but highly interested.

“A leaf,” Paul repeated. “They grow on trees.”

“I don’t understand,” the girl said as she examined the glass leaf with reverence. “I don’t know those words, but it’s beautiful.”

This girl has never been to the surface, Paul thought. She’s never seen a tree! Doesn’t even have a word for it! His heart ached. “Let me show you.”

He stepped into the rock garden and knelt. Calling on all his power and patience, Paul grew a trunk of metal. Not a column; it couldn’t be perfectly straight.

So many things affected the curves of a tree, the placement of its branches, and the budding of its leaves. Paul imagined himself as decades of wind and rain and sun as the trunk leaned into those harsh forces—twisting and gnarling the tree in ways somehow both ugly and beautiful. Then he added the roughness of bark, little knot holes in places that made sense, evidence of broken limbs healed over years, woodpecker holes, and the scratch marks of squirrel claws.

At last, drained of energy, head pounding and weak, Paul beheld what he had wrought. He’d worried whether it’d be lifelike, but the finished work amazed him. The tree stood twenty feet tall, and its canopy glimmered with thousands of glass leaves sparkling in the lantern light.

Far, far more astounding, however, was the captive audience. Thousands of Tsukumogami who’d stopped their commutes and errands to watch packed the garden and the veranda and the roof and hovered in the air. Tatami, shōji, bolts of cloth, sandals, umbrellas, and dozens upon dozens of other types all stared in awe at the tree. A low chorus of whispers arose as people throughout the crowd breathed a word.

““Genesis.””

Before Paul could ask, Biwa Bokuboku landed in the garden. She stared at the tree for a moment and then whirled on Paul in a blazing fury. “How dare you! Corrupting our youth with a monument to the enemy—no one asked for this, no one sanctioned this, it’s graphic and un-unnecessary!”

Confused, Paul tried to explain himself, “I don’t understand, I just wanted to show them something beauti—”

“—We don’t need this!” She cut him off, unfurling her guitar strings to hang in the air like scorpion tails. “We live underground. We don’t need sunshine,” she advanced, and Paul with no magic left to defend himself. “We don’t need rain,” he retreated until his shoulders hit the metal trunk. “And we don’t need trees!”

The strings lashed, but Paul couldn’t lift a finger lest he be accused of attacking a Tsukumogami and be sentenced to death. He heard the cacophony of a thousand whip cracks resounding with a discordant hum, and it was over an instant later.

In the sand all around Paul, scattered into countless pieces, lay the severed glass leaves, twigs, and branches of the metal tree. All that remained of his creation was an ugly metal stump sheltered in the shadow of his body. Paul stood unharmed.

“We don’t need the surface, and we don’t need you!” Biwa ended her tirade of vehement hatred and restrung her guitar head.

Devastated, Paul fell to his knees, reaching for a fallen leaf. A useless gesture. Biwa saw his bowing as a concession of loss and turned to go, battle won. When she took her first step away, one lone Tsukumogami darted forward.

The girl with fuzzy pink slippers reached for the same leaf as Paul. Their hands touched on the surface of the maple leaf, and, for a single instant, their eyes met. The girl’s glass eyes glistened with tears Tsukumogami could not shed, and Paul released his hold on the piece of glass. She fled, treasure in hand.

The crowd erupted. Thousands of Tsukumogami surged as one faceless mob, flitting and rushing and zipping and shooting and dashing about. Their ravenous hunger reminded Paul of a school of piranhas.

“What are you doing?” Biwa screamed, but the mob didn’t listen. “Stop! I order you to stop!” She shouted again and again, but there were too many. If any hesitated at the sound of her voice, they were pushed aside. “Vacate the garden immediately, or I’ll call Koto!”

The garden was empty. Paul stood alone in the bare sand. The metal tree had vanished, leaving not a scrap of wire or shard of glass. Even the stump had been uprooted.

Paul turned to go, leaving Biwa behind, flustered and furious.