MIKO

In the beginning, the god of Sun laid down with Earth.

Where he spent his seed, the islands of our kingdom first took shape.

But Moon, who wanted children of her own, grew envious of their creation.

She brewed a potent drink, which Sun drank deeply and succumbed to a deep slumber.

Moon mounted the sleeping Sun, and the seed he spilled became the stars.

When Sun awoke, so did his fury. He drew his fiery sword and vowed to strike down every single star.

Each night, a dozen stars fall, but they are too numerous for any god to handle.

Then he cursed Moon to be devoured by her children.

Each lunar cycle, the Moon's body dwindles to nothing while stars consume her.

As nights pass, she gains her form again, and the torment begins anew.

– The Song of Sun and Moon (author unknown)

“You missed a few spots. Here and here. You see?”

Miko looked at where Old Mother pointed. She saw no dirt there but she was too exhausted for any protestations. She dutifully mopped the floor and looked at her reflection on the wet surface.

The bags under her eyes—the result of all her late-night reading sessions—were even more prominent than usual. And she was tired, oh so tired.

If any of the other people in the temple were to glance at her and Old Mother, they would have trouble saying which of the two was the old priestess.

Old Mother had thin parchment instead of skin and her hair was the color of ash, but she was annoyingly energetic and loud.

Even her clothes were loud. Although her heavy woolen skirt was dyed a deep black that had faded to charcoal over the years, there were bold vertical stripes in crimson, indigo, ochre, and a few other colors Miko couldn’t name.

Her linen blouse had gone soft from countless washings and had long, billowing sleeves gathered at the wrists. Embroidered just beneath the neckline were small, delicate geometric patterns in red and blue thread.

Over this, she wore a thick, dark vest made of wool, fastened with simple silver clasps shaped like tiny sun and moon, polished to a muted shine.

She was a bear of a woman. Well, of course she was. She has soulbonded with a horned bear, just like Lord Takami did with his banewolf.

The bear sat lazily near the altar and barely paid attention to Miko. He was a well-groomed beast but his hair was thin and gray-streaked.

In the wild, no horned bear could hope to live till forty, yet this one’s life was forever intertwined with Old Mother’s. Once the crone passed away, the bear would follow.

“You still missed a spot. Pay attention.” Old Mother knocked irritatedly at the floor with her cane.

She looked wiry and frail, but Miko knew she was anything but. She could’ve mopped the entire floor on her own, and twice as quickly as Miko.

But this was Miko’s punishment, no one else’s.

“Yes, Old Mother,” she sighed.

In truth, the crone was no one’s mother. By decree, all Mothers were to serve their village and abstain from intimacy for their entire life.

For as much as she knew about herbs, ways to mend broken bones, and how to read fortune using animal entrails, Old Mother knew nothing about less savory parts of a woman’s life.

Neither did Miko, for that matter, but Lord Takami had always been threatening to fix that in due time.

“Be dear and put your back into it,” Old Mother commanded. “Gods know I don’t have long to live and I want to see the floor squeaky clean before I croak.”

“Yes, Old Mother,” Miko repeated her mantra, not wanting to argue.

It felt weird to call someone else Mother when Miko didn’t know hers.

She never heard her father speak fondly of her—or in any way, really—but some details were not hard to deduce. Her mother was clearly dead, for one. If father ever loved her, he masked that well.

More likely it was a short-lived affair. A momentary weakness on Lord Takami’s part, the man who despised weakness.

Mother could not have been a highborn lady, otherwise her father would have mentioned her heritage, at least in passing. She could not have been a common lowborn, either. It was impossible to imagine Lord Takami paying any more attention to commoners than he would a cockroach under his feet.

That left only a courtesan.

If this had happened during the father’s time fighting in the Five General Rebellion, him still with a healthy leg atop his mighty banewolf, it might have even taken place in the royal province of Haryu.

Miko read that courtesans from there wore robes of fine golden silk and had freshwater pearls woven into their hair.

Her mother must have been the most beautiful of them all to have successfully seduced the unbending Lord Takami.

Tried as she might, though, Miko could never imagine her mother’s face. Those few features she could—eyes, nose, thin mouth—never matched together. It was like looking through a foggy glass.

I wonder if she also had freckles? Somehow, Miko doubted she did.

It was well past noon when Miko was finally done with her first task. Old Mother carefully inspected all the nooks and crannies, shaking her head in disapproval, yet mercifully not demanding any more scrubbing.

“Am I done?” Miko asked, trying not to sound too irritated.

Old Mother looked down at her as if she was another dirty surface. “You are a prideful girl, Miko.” She sighed soundlessly. “But do remember, nobody’s tall when they’re on their knees.”

She tapped her cane lightly on top of Miko’s head, then once more for good measure, and only then let her stand up.

“Do your knees hurt?” the old woman asked her.

Miko half-shrugged, half-nodded. In truth, her knees have been screaming from a dull ache for hours, but living in Lord Takami’s manor has taught her to never admit a weakness.

“Good,” Old Mother squinted at her. “So you won’t have the strength to run away again.”

Miko would have rather scrubbed all floors in all the temples across the Empire than listen to another chastisement. She’s had enough of those for five lifetimes over.

“How many more times would you attempt to escape, I wonder?” Old Mother said. “All the better for me, I suppose. My floors will always look good as new.”

“Might be they won’t find me next time.” Miko didn’t intend to say it out loud, but words simply escaped her mouth.

“If your father won’t find you, the beasts will,” Old Mother shook her head. “Gods be good, Miko, what were you thinking? Going out into the woods on your own?”

Miko avoided her gaze and stared at something in the corner. It was a mummified corpse of some saint whose corpse outlived his fame.

“How would you know how I feel? How would anyone know?” Miko whispered. She felt like screaming. If only there weren’t other people in the temple.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

“Do you think you are the first foolish girl in history who wanted to run away?”

Miko stared at the great ruin of Old Mother’s face. Her eyes met Miko’s, unflinching.

“And now you’re doubting I was ever young and fair.”

“I...”

“Do not fret, child. You’ve caused me no offense.” If Miko didn’t know better, she might have said that Old Mother almost smiled. “I’ve come to enjoy my place in life. You might very well be content with yours.”

“Do you regret it? Not having children?” The question was insolent even by Miko’s standards, but somehow she knew she would not get in trouble for it. Not this time.

“Oh, but I do have children,” the old woman replied. “An entire village of them. Four hundred and fifty-eight, by my last count.”

“Even my lord father?” Miko tried to picture him as an infant but all she could conjure was a small version of him, still sporting his goat-like beard.

“Your father especially. He is the biggest child of all,” the crone croaked, amused at her own joke. “But do forgive him, he is only a man.”

Miko blinked. “What do you mean?”

“When circumstances call for caution, men are zealous for action. When it is wiser to let the river flow freely, men rush to build a dam.”

“He is wise,” Miko protested, much to her surprise. Why am I even defending him?

Old Mother made a disapproving grunt. “A wise man knows to let go of a kettle when it is boiling hot.”

Miko bit back a retort. It was always difficult to argue with Old Mother. She knew too many cryptic parables.

“Your father has his own path. You will have yours,” Old Mother’s voice sounded distant. “There is no shame in a more humble stature. Warriors make for rather poor farmers and merchants, and we will always need the latter.”

Every village had to have at least one Old Mother, but why did theirs have to be so needlessly evasive?

“No one ever tells epic tales about merchants,” Miko protested.

Old Mother paused as if to weigh Miko’s words. “There is Goncho the Woodcarver.”

Miko scoffed. "A liar and a thief. And doesn’t his tale end with his own villagers tearing him limb from limb?"

“Oh?” Old Mother feigned confusion. “Please excuse this silly old woman, but I thought you wanted a spectacular death.”

“I was thinking of something more in line with Barka the Immortal.”

Barka was a legendary outlaw in the days of the Third Empire. His exploits were so famous that every century since his passing there were at least a dozen people who swore they crossed their swords with him.

Of all the heroes, Miko liked him best of all. He wouldn’t have tolerated Old Mother’s scolding.

"I’m not asking for a song about getting torn to shreds, Old Mother," she muttered. "I just want—" She trailed off, knowing full well what she wanted wasn’t something she could easily explain.

Old Mother leaned closer, her expression softening just a touch.

"Do not believe old songs, Miko. Men’s hearts start beating faster only when death is but a hair’s-breadth away. Honor, duty, love—those things are meaningless outside of their silly little songs."

She paused and smiled mischievously with her dry, cracked lips. "But if it’s a song you want, I can certainly arrange that."

Before Miko could object, Old Mother clapped and began singing in a lilting tone:

"Brave little Miko, off through the snow,

Chasing her tail with nowhere to go,

Fire in her hand, flame weak as her pride,

Oh oh,

But the hounds had no care for the flames she supplied."

Other people in the temple turned to see what all this ruckus was about. Miko tried sticking her fingers in her ears to little avail. This only incited Old Mother to continue even louder:

"She stumbled and tumbled, her scrolls in a mess,

Her courage, it faltered, her journey a test,

But here she returns, with no tale to boast,

Oh oh,

Just the wind at her back, and Old Mother to roast."

Finally, mercifully, she was done.

"There. A song fit for a warrior... or a woodcarver. Your choice."

Miko could feel her face burning, half in embarrassment and half in anger. "That’s not the kind of song anyone would want.”

The crone chuckled. "What you want and what you need are as opposite as the sun and moon. The world doesn't owe you a tale just because you seek one. You’ll write it yourself, or not at all, you little fool."

Fool. This word again.

The one she heard back then in the Laughing Forest.

Miko tried to convince herself that she misheard it. Surely, that was only a gust of wind and a play of her imagination.

But then she saw that silver shadow in her mind again, and the word Fool was ringing in her ears.

“Were beasts ever capable of speech?” she wondered out loud, already knowing the answer.

“Only in legends, tales, and songs,” the crone shook her head. “There are certain breeds of birds that you can teach to mimic your speech, but that’s the extent of it. When a man binds the beast to himself, he may talk through it with a mind-link.”

Miko remembered the way her father’s voice thundered inside her head when his banewolf was staring her down. No, that wasn’t it. The Fool sounded different.

"I know about soulbonding. A beast and a man entrust their lives to one another and become stronger together," she tried not to sound too bitter saying this. She was forbidden from ever taming a beast, not that this could ever stop her from trying.

"But how did soulbonding originate, anyway?” Miko asked. She’d been wondering that for the longest time, but when it came to certain subjects, father’s scrolls were as secretive as Lord Takami himself.

“Come, I want you to see something.”

Old Mother shuffled through the temple, and Miko followed. The old horned bear opened one of his eyes, waited a good minute, and only then walked the same way, grunting and yawning the entire time.

When they came to an inner sanctum, Miko found herself standing in a garden. It was a quiet, secluded place that Old Mother had tended for years.

Old Mother knelt by the flowers, her eyes softening as she motioned to the plants.

“Look at the sunbloom and the ginger lotus here.” Miko looked and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“Alone, the lotus withers beneath the summer sun, which is why it seeks refuge in the sunbloom’s shade. But their companionship is not one-sided,” Old Mother raised her finger. “The fragrant lotus draws insects and birds, who carry the sunbloom's pollen to other fields. And when the lotus petals fall, they return to the earth, enriching the soil, feeding the sunbloom so it can grow even stronger. One cannot flourish without the other.”

She turned to face Miko and, visibly disappointed by her silence, continued, “Mankind and beasts are no different. We are cut from the same cloth.”

Miko was still silent. "Consider this, girl. Without beasts, our magic is imbalanced and cannot be maintained. I'm sure you're aware."

Miko knew that, of course. She had tried so many times to conjure a weapon or turn her blood into giant flames.

The best she could do was a small spark. It was a small miracle she was even capable of that, considering her disease.

“But nature is not infallible," the crone said. "Did you know that a lionboar’s tusks will continue to grow until they pierce his own skull? Without man, many beasts are destined to be no more than enriched soil for these same plants here.”

Miko was not convinced. She looked around the garden.

“And what does this one do?” she asked, pointing to a peculiar-looking plant with drooping red leaves.

“Ah, this one,” the crone patted Miko on the shoulder, “This one is your punishment for today.”

Old Mother shuffled closer and gestured for Miko to follow. After a few steps, an unmistakable odor hit her.

“What is this?!” she gasped, covering her nose.

“Rotweed,” Old Mother said nonchalantly. “It rarely grows this far to the north. We should count our blessings.”

She made another step forward. Miko didn’t dare to follow.

“Sometimes I miss my sense of smell.” Old Mother bent down and took a loud whiff of the foul plant, completely unphased. “Today, not so much.”

“Be a dear and root out all the rotweed here,” she said at the doorstep. The bear followed her, and Miko was left alone with the nasty smell.

----------------------------------------

The stench of rotweed followed Miko hours after she was done with her task. It clung to her like gnats in summer, only there was no way to swat it away.

And now, to make matters worse, she glimpsed Lady Ohana walking to meet her. Her stepmother.

Miko sighed, wary of a lecture soon to come. She’d just gotten an earful from one person who called herself her mother. Did she have to suffer another?

For a few moments, she thought about running the other way. It would be easy enough, darting behind the nearest house, disappearing into the shadow.

“Good evening, Miko,” she heard from far away. It was too late to run now. Miko had no other option but to bow and listen.

“Good evening, Ohana-a-tori,” Miko replied, her tone carefully neutral and formal as she straightened. Her hands, hidden in the folds of her robe, curled into fists.

It wasn’t that she hated her stepmother. In fact, she hated how she couldn’t hate the woman. Miko would’ve liked nothing more than for Lady Ohana to give her a nice excuse to dislike her.

But there is nothing quite as infuriating as having to tolerate someone so annoyingly decent.

Everything about Lady Ohana was calm and composed. A true image of every nameless wife in every hero’s story.

“Are you finished with Old Mother’s chores?”

Miko didn’t answer. Her miserable look should have told Lady Ohana more than Miko herself ever could.

“You have learned your lesson then, I pray?”

No answer.

“Miko, you don’t plan on running again, are you?”

Still no answer.

“And what happens then? Are you content bleeding out in the forest?” Lady Ohana asked, with no more humor. “If your father hadn’t found you, what would have happened to you?”

It was a question Miko tried not to ask herself.

“You were willing to throw away your brother’s future and, worse, your own life for nothing?”

There were no sharp edges in her words but they cut Miko all the same. What could she even respond with? She said nothing.

“You are the only daughter. Deny all you can, my lord husband does love you.”

“No doubt that’s why he punishes me so,” Miko finally said. A weak response, but it was better than nothing.

“He had a different, harsher punishment in mind,” stepmother said. “I talked him out of it.”

“Why?” Miko asked.

Why are you pretending? she meant to say. You’re not my mother.

“From now on, you will be my company at dance classes,” Lady Ohana ignored Miko’s comment. “It’s past time you learned about proper manners.”

“You’re not my mother.” This time, Miko did say it.

With faint embarrassment, she realized she wanted to see her stepmother hurt. She saw something dark in Lady Ohana’s face and for a moment wished to take it all back.

But words are like birds—another Old Mother’s classic saying—once loose, you cannot hope to catch them.

“No, I am not your mother,” Ohana agreed. “But a true wife needs to know how to eat and dance and sing without embarrassing herself or her family.”

For just a moment, it all seemed like a poor joke. True wife? Wife? Me?

Marriage was a frequent threat around Miko, but she never expected it to actually happen to her. Maybe to some other Miko.

Is this all I am to you, father? Just a useless cattle you can give away?

“And who is the lucky guy?” was all Miko could say with a bitter, insincere smile. “Or are you throwing me into the arms of some old man?”

You’d like that, wouldn’t you? she wanted to add.

“That, I left in your father’s hand.” Ohana made a curt bow, as if to notify there was nothing to talk about anymore, and promptly left.

Miko’s shoulders sagged. She wanted to cry. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to scream, to rage, to vent.

To run away.

Instead, she dutifully followed her stepmother back into Lord Takami’s manor, like a good little daughter they all wanted her to be.