The morning of the summer festival was exceptionally warm, but it lacked the intense humidity that foreboded rain. It was quiet, for the cicadas had not yet begun to sing their daily refrain, and the sun rose and lit the sky a vibrant orange.

Yukiana woke earlier than usual that day. She threw off her blankets, quietly folded her futon, and then set it up on the shelf in the corner of the room. Her father was still sleeping, as he was fond of staying up late into the night, and so she crept carefully out of the main room and slid the folding partition shut. As she closed the door, she could not help but notice him, sprawled out across his futon and seeming so vulnerable, so childlike at that moment. A gentle smile crossed his face which was unusual for him.

“What a silly man I have for a father,” she thought.

Turning aside, she went to the furthest corner of the house where there was a small shrine built for her mother. It was nothing elaborate, just a simple wooden square that hung on the wall with enough room for a small vase, a few candles, and a place to light incense.

Every morning she tried to keep the same routine, and so she knelt before the shrine, bowed her head, and offered a prayer for her mother, who was taken from her at an early age.

“Mother,” she whispered into the soft morning twilight, “Watch over me today.”

She then rose, bowed once again, and then moved swiftly off to finish her morning chores. This would be a day she had eagerly looked forward to, and she wanted to be ready for it.

Her father’s primary job was working in their rice field, which left her to do most of the other daily chores. She cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, and fixed everything within the four walls of their tiny mountain home. This included stitching her or her father’s ripped clothing or repairing worn-out tatami. On this particular day, her duties were relatively light, for she planned to give herself extra time to prepare for the festival. She had planned so that on this day, she would not fall behind.

She started the rice and began to steam fresh mountain vegetables for breakfast, and then once she heard her father waking, she ran outside with the basket of laundry upon her back, pausing only momentarily to slide on her wooden sandals. She would have to forgo breakfast this morning. On top of laundry, she still had lessons down in the village, and that would take up the remainder of her time before lunch. She wanted to be finished with all her obligations as quickly as possible so that she would have the afternoon free to prepare. Besides, she was far too excited to eat.

After vigorously washing the clothes in a nearby mountain stream and hanging them up in the light of the midmorning sun, she found her father wading in the rice field pulling weeds. She informed him that she was going into town for her lessons.

“Be careful,” he said, rising from a crouch. There was a hint of anxiety in his eyes every time she went down into the village. For being a man who had left his young daughter alone for many years, now he could hardly bear to be apart from her. It would have been more comforting back when she was a child, but now she often thought his protection stifling.

She bowed politely and proceeded down the path that ambled down the mountainside into Kokoro Valley. This was perhaps her favorite part of the day, where she could be by herself and allow her mind to fly free. She had grown to love her new home, but it had taken time. It was not the picturesque beauty of Kokoro Valley and the surrounding mountains, nor was it the tranquil nature of the town that brought her around. It was the feeling that she could forge her own path and have some say in her destiny.

This was something that she had never experienced with the rigid Truists. The few happy years that she had with her mother were cut short, and she hardly had any memories of that time. Her formative years as a young girl were therefore filled with obligations and rote chores under her strict Truist masters. They treated her well enough and never abused her, but she was raised as one of them and had to abide by their exacting ways.

Yuki remembered the day her father had asked her, “What do you want to study?”

She was so shocked by that question that it took her quite some time to decide. At the temple, she was never asked what she wanted to study. She only knew what was expected of her and the swift consequences if she failed to obey. In Kokoro, she had a choice, even if it was limited by what the little valley had to offer. There were only a few specialists qualified to teach on any subject in such a rural village, but it did not seem to matter. She had a choice.

“The shamisen,” she said first. “Mother played the shamisen, didn’t she?” The shamisen was a three-stringed instrument that was quite popular for entertainment in her day.

Her father quickly agreed. “That can be arranged. There is an old woman in the village who can teach you.”

That old woman happened to be Mokuwahara-sensei, perhaps the most critical woman on all the Islands. If she knew anything about her teacher before she chose, she might have picked a different subject to study. Lessons consisted of a never-ending stream of critiques and criticisms and on occasion, actual instruction. Mokuwahara-sensei was old, and thin as a broom, but still held herself with the grace of a geisha, which she swore she once was, but that must have been a long, long time ago.

She commented on every little detail, from the way Yuki entered her tiny house to the direction she put her sandals at the entryway. She remarked on the way she sat, the way her eyes moved, and the way she breathed. Yuki soon became so impressed with the pure breadth of her insults, that she almost looked forward to hearing what new egregious flaw her teacher would point out every lesson.

A week prior, Mokuwahara-sensei came up with such a bizarre critique that Yuki almost broke out in full-belly laughter. She was in the middle of a piece that she had been practicing for several weeks, with her teacher sitting across from her, scowling as was her custom.

“Too fast!” the old crone quipped.

She played slower.

“Too slow!” the woman barked; her face contorted with disgust.

Yuki played faster.

“Stop!” the woman finally cried, wringing her hands as if in agony. “I know what’s gotten into you other than your usual lack of ability and fortitude.”

The old woman crawled forward, cat-like, as Yuki sat as still as she could. The woman drew closer and closer until her old, wrinkled face was almost touching her own.

“Got it!” she cried, swiping a curved bony finger across her cheek.

Yuki jerked her head back, stunned.

“Look here, child! How could you possibly play to your…skill level, with this sitting on your face?”

Yuki was frightened at first, thinking that it was some kind of bug that had landed below her eye, but when she observed the old woman’s finger, all she could see was a tiny black eyelash.

“This was weighing down your whole right side, couldn’t you tell? You were off all day, now we know why! You really need to take better care of yourself!”

Yukiana had to do everything she could to control her facial muscles and the laughter welling up inside of her. “Yes, Sensei,” she managed to say, with only a slight crack in her voice.

“What was that?” Mokuwahara screeched. “Your voice sounds awful! Have you caught a cold?”

This is how it usually went. At first, she became deeply frustrated by Mokuwahara’s razor of a tongue, but after some time she had gotten used to it and was able to brush it off.

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“She’s a hard teacher,” her father had reminded her. “But you must be harder.”

Her second choice in lessons had been for her own gratification. “I want to learn calligraphy,” she had decided.

It was not the art of calligraphy in and of itself that she wanted to learn. The reason why she chose this subject was that she wanted to learn all of the thousands of characters that were used in her language. The more characters she could learn the more she could read and understand. If there was one thing she could claim to excel at, or at least show some modest signs of potential, it was in literacy. She was taught how to read at the monastery almost as soon as she arrived, and it had been her saving grace. At first, it was tedious and difficult, and she saw no use in staring at brushstrokes on a page. But when she discovered that she could make sense of a text, however mundane, she realized the power it had to lift herself from her monotonous life and enter into another.

From that moment on she began to read with ravenous curiosity. She read anything she could get her hands on, and the Truists, despite their reputation for being staunch minimalists, seemed to have a hard time letting go of their scrolls and tomes and therefore had many libraries stocked full of material for her to consume. She read it all, no matter how insignificant, from recipe books to letters, love notes written by old courtesans and courtiers, memorandums on strange fungi and fauna, tales, songs, and religious philosophy. Her favorite subject of all was history.

She loved reading about the people who once lived in bygone days, and how they faced the challenges of that era. She loved reading about the romances and marriages that established dynasties, and the betrayals that brought them to ruin. She loved to read about the old wars and the daring warriors who obtained glory through courage or cunning. The world in those times was so rich, so filled with nuance. It was so utterly different than the world she lived in now. It was her escape, especially when the weight of being orphaned felt like it was going to shatter her into dust.

When her father had unexpectedly come to the monastery, a part of her leaped for joy that she would be leaving the stuffy confines and droning teachers. But another part of her groaned with sorrow, for she would be cut off from the one place in the world she felt happy, the library. Her father permitted her to bring but one thing with her on the journey to Kokoro, and she had chosen wisely. A copy of The Tales of the Kami was never far from her pillow. She had read it more times than she could count.

When she came to Kokoro, she was at first heartbroken by the lack of material for her to read, and consistently let her father know that he had chosen the wrong place for them to settle. But as time went on, and her stubborn father made it clear that he had no intent on moving, she was forced to explore on her own. She discovered that this village, though plain and ordinary in almost every way, contained many hidden pockets of texts that she had not ever seen in the monastery library. Most people in the village did not know how to read advanced texts and merely kept a hold of them as symbols of prestige. She would often ask to borrow them, and without question, they would be hers for a time. She had not yet exhausted the town of its contents, and whenever she thought that she was getting close, she would discover more in the most unexpected of places.

However, despite all of her practice, she was not yet as proficient as she wanted to be. She knew that her training had not been completed by the Truists. There were still a great many characters that she could not read, and this infuriated her to no end. Calligraphy, she saw, was probably the only way for her to advance in this small town. Now and again, they would cover some old characters that she did not yet know, and she would be all the better for it.

Her teacher, Fuji-sensei, was a great contrast to Mokuwahara. Their only similar quality was their age, and then all comparisons ceased. Fuji-sensei was old, one could even say ancient, for he was shrunken, wrinkled, and brown spots dotted the top of his shiny bald head. But he never had a bad thing to say about Yuki’s work. Indeed, if she woefully underperformed, it was merely a pleasant mistake, and if she did well, he thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He merely sat across from her, his tiny legs folded underneath him, and shaking every so often he would say things like, “Ah, wonderful! I’ve never seen such a skillful stroke!” And “Now, I see what you did there, and I just can't get over how good you are becoming!” These sweet words seemed to remedy the vinegar she got from Mokuwahara, and she found that calligraphy, though not her favorite thing to do, was at least enjoyable, and she was able to learn many new characters from it.

The best part of it all was that Fuji-sensei had the largest reserve of old texts in the entire village, and he was generous with lending them out to her. Fuki often went on tangents throughout their lessons, and they would discuss the old histories in detail. The old man was a history enthusiast as well and even claimed to have taught the subject to a wealthy samurai house in the provincial capital.

She would often ask him about certain names and dates, and he would often test her to make sure she understood the implications of what she was reading. For being so old, his mind was still quite nimble, at least when he was awake and not dozing like he was wont to do.

On this particular day, the lessons went on as usual. Mokuwahara-sensei was as critical as ever, sensing Yuki’s excitement and punishing her for lack of mental focus, while Fuji-sensei fell asleep halfway through their lesson. This ended up being to her benefit, as she wanted to get started on her outfit as soon as she could. She quietly left him early and proceeded back up towards her house on the ridge.

It was about midday, and her father had left her some lunch while he was out in the fields. It was simple rice with leftover vegetables from the morning and an egg. She ate it quickly and then disappeared into one of their small side rooms where she could change and have some privacy. An hour or so later she had nearly finished but needed some assistance with tying the obi.

Her father had already come in from the fields, and it was apparent that he had bathed in preparation for the festival. He was also wearing his nicer indigo kimono tucked into matching hakama, long billowing pants. When he was cleaned up and well-dressed, he was quite handsome. “If only he would smile more,” she thought.

“I need some help,” she said, holding the sash in her hands.

Her father nodded and rose to his feet. “Of course.”

It had taken a great deal of time, but she had trained him on how to tie an obi and now he was quite proficient in it. She, of course, had to learn from the older women of Kokoro, for there were no such outfits in the monastery other than the dull saffron robes they always wore. She then took to instructing her father, who admitted that he had never tied one. Like most things, her father picked it up quickly, but there were quite a few bumps in the process. To create the proper bow-like shape on her back, there was a great deal of pulling and tightening. It was not painful, but it was not comfortable either. And without a full-sized mirror, she depended on him to know the difference between partial and perfect.

After several minutes of adjustment and readjustment, her father stood back, eyeing her carefully.

“I think we have it,” he said at last.

She knew better, but she asked anyway. “Are you sure? I just want it to look…”

“Perfect?” he said, completing her thought. “I know. Let me do a little more.” There was no anger in his voice, nor was there the usual frustration.

“He is being especially kind about this,” she thought. “I wonder why?”

“All right,” he said at last. “But there is one more thing.”

She turned around to face him. There was sincerity mingled with sorrow on his face. He held out his well-worn hands. She looked down. There was a small, curved stone in the center of his cupped palms. It was like a crescent moon but thicker, and rounder, more like a teardrop. It also shined with a pale glimmer, for it seemed to be made of pearl. It was attached to a necklace made of a dark fiber that was waxed.

“A magatama…” Yuki whispered, startled at the gift. “It’s like yours.”

“No,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “Not like mine. This one belonged to your mother. She said it was her most precious possession. Do you understand what that means?”

“It’s valuable.”

He smiled. “This one little stone may be worth more than the entire farm. I know we came through some tough times and selling this could have helped a lot, but it’s the only thing I had of hers. I just could not bring myself to sell it.”

She took it into her hands and caressed it, admiring it in a new light. It was so simple, yet so sublime. Her mother had worn this. It was not a fake or a copy. It was hers.

“I was going to give it to you on your wedding day,” her father admitted softly. “But these days, you look so much like her. She would have wanted you to have it. When you wear it, she can…she can guide you.” He looked at the floor as he said this. “I know that I’ll never take her place. But, well, just promise that you’ll take good care of it.”

Yuki smiled, trying her best to hold back the tears in her eyes. “I promise.”

He turned to move away, but as he did, she hugged him from behind. It was the first, real hug that she had given him in a long time. His shoulders dropped. It was as if everything he was holding inside was momentarily gone. The guilt, the weight, everything, it was gone. But it was too good a gift for a man like him.

“You can finish getting ready,” he said, as her grip loosened from around his waist. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

“Alright,” she said, “I’ll just be a moment.”

He departed the room and Yuki was left staring down at her mother’s magatama. Yet the pleasant reminiscence it created in her soon soured, as it usually did. The last memory of her mother flashed through her mind and then the feeling of poison in the pit of her stomach grew. Her hand trembled as she held the necklace and she felt unsteady and faint.

“I wish I could forget,” she muttered to herself, breathing heavily. “But I can’t. Mother, forgive me, but I cannot wear this. Not yet at least.”

Instead of tying it around her neck, Yuki dropped the magatama into a pocket in her kimono by her hip. It would be safe there. Her mother would be with her, yes, but it would not be a constant reminder of her most painful memory.

Within moments she collected herself and pushed the horrid thoughts to the back of her mind.

“This is a festival night,” she said, forcing a smile. “I must enjoy it.”