Madame returned, and with her, all of the surviving weavers. It seemed the mysterious illness had passed by us. Feeling upheld by fate, the weavers returned to their petty grievances.
Perhaps their jealousy reignited upon seeing the work I had produced in their absence. Madame, almost, could not restrain her delight, and these pieces soon disappeared from the house. I was sorry, especially, to see the hummingbirds go. It was my single best reminder of Ansei’s pledge.
I could bear Madame’s return while I believed Ansei loved me. I could be patient, and so I avoided the garden, and I kept the mill’s doors closed while I worked through the night.
But that could not go on forever. And Cook found excuses to send me out.
“It’s too heavy for me to carry. You’re young—you heft this bucket of compost out to the garden.”
“That is Kame’s job,” I said, trying to excuse myself.
“Kame is busy and the bucket is pungent in my kitchen. Take it!”
I would have to take the bucket, but I didn’t fear such a short task too greatly. It would be done so quickly. I could hurry away and return to my loom in a matter of seconds.
I didn’t know, however, that Cook had captured a rare and venomous scorpion, and secretly released it into my robe while she helped me lift the heavy bucket. I carried it as far as the pond before I felt the sting of the bite inside my right thigh.
I dropped the bucket. The ground rocked beneath me. I staggered and fell. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the insect dash away in a mad scatter of legs. I opened my robe to examine the wound on my upper thigh, and found an angry red welt. I made an effort to walk, but fell to the ground short of the plum tree.
Soon, Ansei appeared and knelt beside me.
“You’re hurt. What was it?”
“I am not sure,” I lied. “But it doesn’t matter. They’ll be watching,” I said, struggling back to my feet.
Ansei pushed me, gently, yet firmly back to the ground. Holding my gaze, he asked again.
“What was it?”
Averting my eyes, I folded my robe away, exposing my wounded thigh.
“Scorpion.”
Eyes widening, he removed the belt from his robe, tied it around my thigh above the bite, and cinched it hard. Then he removed a knife from his pocket and cut an X over the wound until red blood oozed. He pressed his mouth to the wound and began to suck the poison with a shucking sound as the air moved between his teeth.
I winced an objection, but he ignored me and continued until he had removed all the poison.
I can guess how Ansei’s falling upon me looked to Madame’s eyes where she followed the weavers’ pointing fingers from the veranda.
No one ever asked me for my account, though I tried to explain. In the end, I could prove there was a bite. All traces of the mark were gone. And I never suffered an hour of illness. Ansei had removed the poison and I had not so much as swooned to show that the episode was anything but what it appeared to be.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
I waited for Ansei through the length of the night, but Madame watched too, and he must have realized this. I never saw any hint of him.
* * *
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In the morning, Madame sent Ansei away like a common thug, escorted by the machi bugyo. I watched him leave, eyes averted, perfectly erect shoulders bare of so much as a bedroll. I never caught a parting glance through the blur of my own tears.
Madame had accused Ansei of sexual assault and he was sentenced to labor on a large farm within the prosperous domain of a titled daimyo called Nobu, and a samurai by training with a reputation of cruelty. Many criminals passed sentences within his domain.
Me, Madame beat, more harshly than ever. Then she banished me from the house, saying it was unfair to allow a woman like myself to share Cook and Kame’s sleeping quarters.
I did not know it for certain, but I believe she perceived how much I loved Ansei, and meant to break my heart by closing me inside the space of his recent dwelling. But in so doing, she saved my life.
* * *
Days blended with nights. I labored at my loom, blunted and numb emotionally and physically. My stomach was too weak for proper nourishment and I lost flesh. A season passed without my marking the time. And I might have passed another season the same way. Perhaps I would have let go of my sanity, but Ansei had left so much of himself behind him. In time, my curiosity to understand these things pulled me from the mental cave to which I had retreated.
In the shed, Ansei had cultivated a supply of fermented vegetables in clay vessels. When I ate from these, I knew I would live, whether I wanted to or not. Some of the vessels contained mysterious herbs, many medicinal. I experimented with them, and they surprised, even shocked me, with the strength and mental focus they supplied me.
With newfound strength, I explored the strange notes and records Ansei stored on makeshift shelves in the shed. He had obviously committed much time to their keeping. Some of the books were valuable. He should have taken them, but he chose instead to leave them. I hoped he was thinking of me.
Within the bound leaves, not a scratch made mention of me. The volume was more of a herbal field guide, and I scrutinized it as best as my limited literacy allowed. In good time, however, I learned.
Ansei was a much more learned herbalist than he had ever given me to know. His notes recorded experiment upon experiment. It seemed he was seeking an antidote for a kind of toxin, but I couldn’t decipher what, because he used a character I didn’t recognize. The records went on extensively, but although they were too advanced for me, I never lost patience or interest in looking at them. I believed Ansei had left them to me. And it was the last I had of him.
One thing confused and intrigued me. Apparently, Ansei was a skilled artist in his own right. He had given several pages near the end of one volume to the depiction of a woman—more beautiful than any I had ever beheld. She was not merely an idea of a woman. Her facial characteristics were too detailed for a fanciful sketch. This was someone Ansei knew, and judging from the emotion captured in her mouth—someone Ansei knew well. Strangely, across from her picture was a sketch of a large orb spider.
* * *
My exterior wounds began to heal quickly with the aid of Ansei’s salve. My skin seemed to grow in health and luster. In fact, these herbs and foods might explain why Ansei, himself, appeared so strong and full of health.
It cut against Tatsuo’s theory of Ansei’s immortality, but then, herbs could say only so much. They couldn’t explain his knowledge. Slaves were not literate—not like this. And how had he learned experimentation?
Although my physical health increased, the edges of my emotional wounds splayed wide and ragged. I had ignored my grief, covered it over, and there it remained. I knew I should spend more time in the garden, and yet I stayed in the shed, rarely moving beyond its immediate exterior and unaware of anyone’s suffering but my own.
My own suffering would more than fill a valley, but rain never fell to accommodate the volume of the ground beneath it.