Tales of Blood and Ink

TALES OF BLOOD AND INK

KATE MACLEOD

CONTENTS

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Blood and Ink

Oil Fire

Gardens of Wind

Seagull and Raven

Mother River

Tale of a Fox

Full Circle

On Desperate Seas

Trifle

The Onmyoji’s Wife

Din Ba Din

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About the Author

Also by Kate MacLeod

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BLOOD AND INK

Morinaga Shiori sighed and shifted her son on her lap. It had been her decision to nurse him, a secret lest the other ladies of Heian-kyo consider her more provincial than they already did, but the never-ending summer heat made it a miserable experience. His sweaty flesh was pressed up against her just when she most longed for nothing touching her but a soft breeze, or perhaps any icy mountain spring like the one back home.

The memory washed over her. She played with the sensations in her mind, and she knew just what brushstrokes she would use to try to convey the coolness of the water, thick to thin and curving just so. She reached for her writing desk to pull it nearer, but her son grunted in complaint and she sat still and let him eat.

Later. She could paint later.

She looked up at the whisper of silk on the polished wood floor and saw her mother hurrying in with her careful steps.

I will take Yoshi now, she said. Sakura is here to call on you.

Shiori gently pried her son’s mouth off her breast, kissed the top of his hot but soft head, and handed him to his eager grandmother. Then she ran her hands over the many layers of her juni-hito, trying to make them all perfect. The silk was wrinkled from where Yoshi’s sweaty body had lain, but at least there were no telltale drops of milk staining the outer layers.

She had just taken up her fan and settled her hands on her lap, getting that Heian-kyo look on her face like she had done nothing all day but wait for someone to call on her, when Sakura came in.

Good morning, Morinaga Shiori, she said with a bow.

Good morning, Meiji Sakura, Shiori said. It’s good to see you.

It’s been too long, Sakura said, opening her fan, every angle of her fingers and wrists just so, although there was no one but Shiori to see it. I’m having a poetry recital tomorrow evening; do tell me you’ll come.

Oh, Sakura, you know I have no skill for poetry, Shiori sighed. She didn’t add that she suspected the other ladies were ridiculing what attempts she made behind her back; Sakura would only tell her she was imaging things.

Perhaps you could show some of your kakemono instead. I’m sure the others wouldn’t mind, Sakura said with a pretty flutter of her fan. Shiori was about to answer but was obliged to wait as a servant brought in the sake, setting it on a little table nearby before disappearing once more. Shiori held her tongue as she poured for both of them, trying to hold back the full sleeve of her juni-hito with at least a hint of artfulness. She didn’t have Sakura’s flair for gestures; she was always in too much of a hurry. Only when Sakura had taken a sip of the sake and gently set down her bowl did Shiori finally speak. Perhaps you would help me to choose which kakemono to bring to your poetry reading?

It would be an honor, Sakura said with a smile. Shiori went across the room to the wood boxes which held all of her tightly rolled scrolls. She dug around only for a moment before she found the two she had painted just the night before and brought them to Sakura.

Ah, this is your husband, Fujiya Takehiko, no? Sakura said, fanning herself as she examined the ink portrait. Did he sit for you to paint this?

No, I did it from memory, Shiori said. She did not add that she had not seen Takehiko since shortly after their son was born, seven months ago. She unrolled the second kakemono.

This is also your husband, Sakura said. Her eyebrows drew down in a slight frown. For once Meiji Sakura did not know the proper thing to say.

Yes, but they’re different. Don’t you see? Shiori asked. Sakura looked from one to the other.

I confess they seem the same to me, but I am no judge of painting. It is so odd, painting just someone’s face like this; I have never seen it done. And why did you do two? Are they to be a matched set?

They are different, Shiori said, turning the scrolls in her hands so that she could look upon them. The difference was clear in her eyes: one was Takehiko with fiery passion in his eyes, the other was Takehiko, cold and remote. How had she failed to convey it? But then even with the real Takehiko before her, she couldn’t always tell which state he was in until he began to speak.

Perhaps a painting from nature? I know you could do something lovely, Sakura suggested.

I was just thinking of a new one, Shiori admitted. I was thinking of the spring near my home in Nagano. It’s been so hot in Heian-kyo, I would love to paint something cool.

That would be lovely, Sakura said. Only don’t say ‘my home in Nagano’. The others may find that too countrified.

Of course, Shiori said, grateful that the white powder on her face was thick enough to cover the sudden flaming of her cheeks. Heian-kyo is my home.

Of course, Sakura smiled and fluttered her fan.

Night brought no relief; if anything, it became more stiflingly hot than before. Shiori had set aside her juni-hito, wearing only the sleeveless garment of a peasant - and a male peasant at that - but she needed her arms bare and free to paint. By the flickering light of her candles, she ground her ink stick and mixed it with water until the blue-black pool was the perfect consistency. Then she took up the brush she had left soaking. The bristles were now saturated with no air bubbles trapped within, but there were three hairs that had been bent and refused to lie with the others.

Shiori took her little knife to trim the hairs, but she could not see them against the dark wood of her table by candlelight. She picked up the brush once more, letting it rest against the side of her thumb and gently trimming away the errant bristles.

Yoshi gave a sudden shriek in the still night and Shiori jumped, slicing her own knuckle with the blade. Several drops of blood dripped into her ink before she put her thumb to her mouth, sucking the wound as she went to help her mother calm Yoshi. It was just a little cut; it would not keep her from painting.

It was very late when she at last returned to her work; the candles had burned down low. If she were going to paint this night, she would have to start at once. There was no time to mix fresh ink.

She closed her eyes and put herself back home in Nagano, at her favorite spring. She listened to the chatter of the water dancing over the rocks, the burble as it pooled in the deep places. She felt the chill of the air that followed the water down the mountain and smelled the sharp, sticky aroma of the pine trees that grew along its banks.

She opened her eyes and began to paint.

Shiori sipped sake and tried not to look bored. She hated poetry. She knew she missed the nuances that delighted the others; she could not tell a good poem from a bad one. In Nagano there were many ways to pass an evening together, but in Heian-kyo with its insistence on formalities, things were more limited. The screen that separated the women from the eyes of the men divided any party in half and made poetry recitals one of the few entertainment options. One could scarcely play go around a screen that went from floor to ceiling. And her kakemono was still tightly rolled in the corner where Sakura had placed it on Shiori’s arrival.

Greetings, Morinaga Shiori, said a woman whose name Shiori could not recall. Luckily the woman’s intent was gossip, not social politeness, so she went on without waiting for Shiori to respond. I hear Fujiya Takehiko will be here tonight. Is this true?

I don’t know, Shiori said then was instantly certain that had been the wrong thing to say. Now all of Heian-kyo would know her husband no longer called on her.

He often attends Meiji Sakura’s poetry recitals. He has a fine gift with words, doesn’t he? the woman went on.

Many seem to think so.

Meiji Sakura is also a wonderful poet, isn’t she? Perhaps this evening the two of them will have a poetry contest like they had a fortnight ago. That was a wonderful time; it’s a shame you weren’t there! I think Meiji Sakura had the upper hand in the end, but Fujiya Takehiko left determined to best her in the next match. The woman fluttered her fan and gave the falsest of smiles. And then she was gone, to Shiori’s immense relief.

Morinaga Shiori, I think now would be the perfect time to view your kakemono, Sakura announced, and the room was filled with polite murmurs of agreement. Shiori bowed then went to retrieve her scroll. She had scarcely slept last night, for even after she had finished painting the spring, her mind had been alive with sensations she had to commit to paper. She had filled scroll after scroll with twisted trees and stately cranes and dancing fish before at last falling asleep with her elbow in her nearly dry ink well.

She unrolled the kakemono and then turned to show it to the others. Her stomach was rocking like a typhoon, too much anxiety and sake on top of too little food. The women gathered around, their white faces giving no hint to their thoughts. They nodded and made little murmurs, but each was careful not to actually express an opinion until Sakura had decided whether or not the piece was good.

Sakura stepped forward to examine it more closely. Her face was intent as her gaze followed the curving lines of the painting. Then she closed her eyes with a blissful smile.

Can’t you feel it? Oh, it’s wonderful. So cool...

The other women looked at each other nervously. One brave soul drew nearer to stand next to Sakura. For a moment she just continued to fan herself as she stared at the painting, but then the studious look left her face and she too was throwing her head back, loosening the folds of her juni-hito as if to enjoy some breeze only she and Sakura were feeling.

Now all the women were rushing forward, pushing each other aside to stand before Shiori and her scroll. Shiori felt like crying. She knew they didn’t like her, but this mockery was really too much. She was just about to throw the kakemono to the ground and leave, no matter how unseemly such behavior would be judged, when a voice carried from beyond the screen.

May I see your kakemono, Morinaga Shiori?